


Stay In My Arms (If You Dare)

by poisonivory



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-06-06 01:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6733207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivory/pseuds/poisonivory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Defenders are the most elite bodyguard agency in the world. When Wilson Fisk's personal attorney Foggy Nelson walks in looking for protection from a mysterious man in black, Matt Murdock is <i>more</i> than happy to take Mr. Nelson's safety in hand. But Nelson's guilt is hard to prove, and Matt may have gotten himself in too deep - especially once someone besides the man in black starts gunning for his client.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT WARNING: This is not how real bodyguards work, if your bodyguard is acting like this they are probably a superpowered vigilante. Be careful out there, kids.
> 
> Title is from "I Have Nothing" by Whitney Houston. Yes, from the _Bodyguard_ soundtrack. Look, you can't be surprised by how cheesy I am at this point.

It's late when Matt's target finally leaves the office. That's good - it'll be easier to follow him unnoticed, Matt's black clothes fading into the surrounding night. Besides, tired men scare more easily - and scared men give up their secrets faster.

The target lives in the neighborhood, so it's a simple matter to follow him as he makes his way home on foot, exchanging a couple friendly hellos with acquaintances along the way. Matt keeps pace on the roofs until they're close enough to the target’s quiet residential street for him to hear that it's deserted. There'll be no one to see this.

He hurries ahead, makes his way down to the bottom level of a convenient fire escape, and waits. The target draws near, turns the corner…

...and Matt drops down in front of him. “Franklin Nelson.”

“Holy shit!” Nelson rears back, heart rate skyrocketing from a normal pace to rabbit terror in the time it takes him to say the words. “Holy _shit!_ ”

He's afraid. Good. Matt shoves him against the nearest building, forearm across his throat. Nelson hits the wall hard enough to knock the air out of him.

“You're gonna tell me what I want to know,” Matt growls.

“What? I don't...about what? I don't know anything!” Nelson protests.

That's unlikely. Franklin Nelson’s something of a wunderkind of an attorney, having made a name for himself in the three short years since he graduated from Columbia Law. He’s been working at the prestigious firm of Landman and Zack until recently - Landman and Zack, who’ve been on Matt’s radar for nearly a year. They represent numerous powerful clients connected in various shady ways to a man whose name is only whispered behind closed doors, if it's spoken at all: Wilson Fisk.

Three months ago, after winning a massive settlement for a company called Union Allied, Nelson left Landman and Zack to work on retainer for a private client. He was hired by a man named James Wesley.

James Wesley is the personal assistant to Wilson Fisk.

But Wesley is too well-protected for Matt to get near. Nelson is the first crack Matt's found in Fisk’s organization who ranks higher than the street-level drug dealers and gun runners whose heads he's been knocking together for months, the ones who legitimately don't know anything but how green the money is. Matt's not about to let him get away.

Nelson tries to scramble out of Matt’s grasp and Matt shoves him against the wall again. His head hits the bricks, hard enough to hurt but not to do any serious damage. “Ow! Shit!” Nelson hisses. “I told you I don’t _know_ anything! I don’t even know what I’m supposed to know anything _about!_ ”

The spark of anger is a little surprising. In the month Matt’s been tailing Nelson in his free time, he’s put together a portrait of an easygoing, amiable, somewhat sedentary man. Oh, there are hidden depths - that same amiability hides the fierce ambition that took a working class boy to the top of his class at an Ivy League school - but Nelson seemed overall too soft to be anything but terrified by a shakedown. He’s definitely still scared - Matt can feel him trembling - but he’s angry, too.

“I want to know about your boss. Wilson Fisk.” Matt lets his teeth show, puts just enough pressure on Nelson’s windpipe to make him worry before easing off.

“Attorney-client privilege,” Nelson gasps. “I can’t tell you anything. And wouldn’t if I could.”

The backbone’s surprising too. And annoying. “Oh, you’ll talk,” Matt says. “Maybe not until I’ve broken a couple of your fingers, but you’ll talk.” He’s bluffing, mostly. Nelson hasn’t actually committed a crime that Matt knows of, and he’s not so far gone that he’ll break an innocent man’s fingers. Unless he has to.

“There’s nothing to talk _about!_ ” Nelson protests, even though the whiff of fear rising off him is sharper now, overwhelming his baseline scent of soap and coffee and vanilla. “I just started working for him, I’ve barely even gotten my name up on the door!”

And - there it is. The subtle hitch in Nelson’s heartbeat, only perceptible to Matt’s hyper-sensitive ears.

He’s lying.

Matt gives him another little shove against the wall and leans the weight of his body into Nelson’s to keep him in place, forearm still pressed tight across his throat. His other hand slides down to Nelson’s to tangle with his fingers - and push back on his index finger. Just far enough that Nelson’s joint protests.

“Don’t,” Nelson pleads, and the begging is sweet. “Don’t, please, I _swear_ I can’t tell you anything - !”

_“Hey!”_

Matt freezes. There’s someone at the end of the block, voice and scent familiar. It takes a second for Matt to place him: Sergeant Brett Mahoney of the NYPD. He’s picked up some of the scum Matt’s left unconscious for the cops. From what Matt can tell, he’s always seemed honest enough.

“Brett!” Nelson cries, voice ringing with relief.

Nelson _knows_ Mahoney? Shit. Time Matt wasn’t here.

“This isn’t over,” he growls close to Nelson’s ear, and feels him twitch.

Then he lets him go, using a running leap off the wall to reach the bottom rung of the fire escape and pull himself up. Mahoney breaks into a run but Matt’s out of sight over the edge of the roof before Mahoney reaches Nelson. He puts a few buildings between them - no point in being stupid, in case Mahoney’s in uniform and calling for backup - but stays in close enough range to listen.

“Are you okay?” Mahoney asks.

Nelson’s breathing is more ragged than usual. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“What’d you do to get on _his_ radar?”

“What - you _know_ that asshole?”

Matt snorts.

“He’s popped up here and there, knocked out a few low-level criminals. Drug dealers, mostly. Probably defending his turf from the competition,” Mahoney says. “You got a new job on the side I don’t know about?”

“That’s what he was asking about. My new job, I mean,” Nelson says.

“What, the fancy retainer shit? Why?”

“I have no idea,” Nelson says, and Matt’s too far away to hear his heartbeat and know if he’s lying.

Oh, well. He’ll try again in a few days.

*

_“Malcolm. Malcolm. Malcolm.”_

Matt rolls over and fumbles for the phone. “‘Lo?”

“Hey, Matt. Did I wake you?”

“Mmrph.”

“Sorry. Can you come in for a demo at two this afternoon?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Great. Oh, and Trish says this one’s both loaded and naive, so, and I quote, ‘make sure he looks pretty and shaves off that face pelt of his.’”

Matt laughs into the pillow. “See you at two, Malcolm.”

When he hangs up and checks the time, it’s nearly noon already, so he drags himself out of bed to get ready. He showers, shaves as carefully as he can, does his best with his hair - Danny will fix it if it needs fixing - and heads outside to hail a cab.

The Defenders are located in an elegant old grand dame of a building in SoHo, their presence indicated only by a discreet nameplate and the polite nod of the doorman. They don’t advertise, and their web presence is minimal. Their clients come to them solely through referrals.

Matt folds up his cane as he enters. He doesn’t really need it, but it’s easier to use it on the street than have strangers solicitously trying to help the blind guy. “Hello, Melvin.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Murdock,” the doorman says. “Got a new client?”

“Well, one of us does,” Matt says with a smile, and steps into the elevator.

As the doors open on the top floor, he does a quick scan. No unfamiliar heartbeats, so the client hasn’t arrived early. Malcolm and his wheatgrass smoothie at the front desk; Trish’s absurdly expensive but thankfully subtle perfume in her office. From the agents’ lounge comes whiskey and iron and lemongrass: Jessica, Luke, and Danny. Everyone else must still be out on assignment.

“Well, Malcolm, do I pass muster?” he asks as he walks in.

“Fresh-faced as a newborn baby,” Malcolm says, and Matt laughs.

“Perfect. Just what everyone wants in a bodyguard.” He trusts Trish’s judgment, though. She’s got a knack for evaluating a client over the phone and knowing the kind of service that will appeal to them: sleek and professional, scruffy and disreputable, sweet and safe. Matt can play them all.

Danny is stretching in the lounge when Matt walks in, Luke is looking at something on his phone, and Jessica is flopped face first into one of the couches, to all appearances dead to the world, if it weren’t for her perfectly awake and alert heartbeat and breathing. “Morning,” Matt says, and pours himself a cup of Danny’s fancy tea, ignoring his “Hey!” of protest.

“It’s one forty-five, Murdock,” Luke says. “You working the night shift again?”

“Mmm, it’s possible,” Matt replies against the rim of his teacup. Everyone at Defenders knows about his nighttime activities, at least a little bit. He never intended to tell them, but Jessica used to be a private investigator, and her apathetic facade turned out to hide a knack for ferreting out reasons people she cared about were suddenly turning up exhausted and bruised.

Matt suspects she’s disappointed it wasn’t a weird sex thing. Well, _mostly_ not a weird sex thing.

It’s good that she found out, really. Matt’s careful, but his vigilantism puts them all at risk and he knows it. If he’s ever caught - if one of the Defenders’ agents is arrested for vigilantism - there goes their reputation, and everything Trish worked so hard to build.

And it’s quite a reputation. The Defenders are the most exclusive, elite, _expensive_ bodyguards in the world. Every agent is a guaranteed metahuman with rigorous combat training and extensive knowledge of security protocols. They are adaptable, able to intimidate or melt into the background on the client’s whims. Because their clientele tends to move in rarified circles, they’re also trained to polish up prettily and hold their own in elegant venues; Matt’s attended more than a few white tie events on his clients’ arms. Beautiful, accommodating, and effective: the Defenders’ holy trinity.

Of course, some of them are more accommodating than others. Trish gently steers clients who want eye candy away from Jessica, whose brash attitude and impatience with jackasses makes her most appealing to female clients trying to avoid stalkers and violent ex-husbands, especially since she can literally fly them out of danger in a hurry. Luke is most in demand with male clients who think the size of their bodyguard will imply that the size of certain other things is directly proportionate, or clients of any gender who are _very_ afraid of whoever they think is after them. Danny is popular with rich businessmen who went on one trip to Japan and claim to have felt a real spiritual connection with the land.

Matt, however, is a chameleon. He can bring out the charm for skittish clients, or the ever-simmering rage for clients who think a blind man won’t be much protection. And he’s the best possible choice for anyone who fears poison.

It’s a demanding job, but it’s always interesting. And it pays _very_ well.

Trish walks in with a swoosh of perfume and a long scarf. “Good, you’re all here,” she says. “Hey. Jess.”

“I’m asleep,” Jess says into the couch.

“Well, good thing nothing says ‘your life is safe in my hands’ like couch seam lines pressed into your face,” Trish says, but otherwise leaves Jessica where she is. “Okay, the client should be here in five. Male, twenty-eight, his company’s footing the bill. Lots of terrified babbling on the phone. My guess is he’s looking for someone fast-talking, dependable, and only scary to _other people_. Got it, Jess?”

Jessica turns onto her side but doesn’t bother to open her eyes. “Hey, he keeps his hands to himself and so do I.” Jessica’s the reason Defenders has to use the careful language of “never had a client injured by an _external_ threat.” Matt suspects Trish doesn’t actually mind, considering how hard she laughs every time Jessica makes a gropey asshole cry.

“Whatever,” Trish says. “We’re fully in the black, so if none of you want him, let me know and I’ll make up some excuse.”

“Can we be busy with a secret mission for the Avengers this time?” Danny asks.

“Do _you_ want to find a lawyer to handle our case when the Avengers find out we’re misrepresenting ourselves as members?” she replies.

“We?” he repeats.

“Please, I’d make a better Avenger than any of you,” Trish says tartly.

Matt snorts, then hears the hum of the elevator approaching. “Client’s here,” he says.

Trish claps her hands together. “Excellent. Be good! Or bad. Figure out what he wants and take it from there.” She heads out to greet the client.

Matt tilts his head, concentrating on the elevator doors as they open. There’s the steady glow of body heat, a fast heartbeat, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on a thigh...and a scent. Soap, coffee, and vanilla.

Matt _knows_ that scent. He’s been tracking it for weeks.

“You must be Mr. Nelson,” Trish says, and Matt hears the soft brush of skin against skin as they shake hands. “I’m Trish Walker.”

“Thank you so much for setting this up on such short notice.” That’s definitely Nelson - nervous, but nowhere near as scared as he was last night. “My employer said you were the best, but this is really above and beyond.”

“Nonsense,” Trish says. Her voice is smooth, cool, reassuring - her client voice. “Your safety is our primary concern.”

His safety? Who would be threatening Nelson’s safety? Has he gotten himself into something dangerous working for Fisk, or…

Then Matt puts two and two together, and feels tremendously stupid. _Oh. He’s_ been threatening Nelson’s safety. He actually scared Nelson enough that he decided to hire a _bodyguard_ , and now he’s placed himself directly in Matt’s hands.

“Oh my God,” Matt says out loud.

He can sense the others looking at him. “What? Is he weird?” Jessica asks.

Matt shakes his head, still half tuned in on Trish and Nelson’s conversation. “He’s mine,” he says, then blinks and turns back to the others. “I mean. You have to let me have this one. Seriously, he’s my client, I’m taking him.”

“Whoa, slow down,” Luke says. “Why? I mean, fine, I don’t care, my bills are paid this month, but why?”

“Iiiii know why,” Jessica sing-songs, and Matt glares at her.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Jones. It’s…” He hesitates. They know he goes after street-level criminals, but he suspects they wouldn’t be so sanguine about him taking on someone as dangerous as Fisk. Still, he can’t think of any other explanation for being so set on getting Nelson as a client. “It’s related to my extracurricular activities.” Jessica explodes into laughter. “I said _out_ of the gutter.”

“Hey, you’re the one who put it there,” she replies. “Fine. Whatever. He’s all yours. And no, I will not be in your wedding party.”

“I will!” Danny offers.

“I hate you all,” Matt mutters, and pours himself a fresh cup of tea, ignoring their laughter to focus on Nelson.

*

Demos are usually pretty straightforward. Trish explains the company policies to the client: hourly or live-in service, indefinitely or until a specific threat is neutralized; nonlethal deterrents only; client pays all expenses while the agent is on the clock, including medical bills for injuries sustained in the line of work, and so on.

Then the available agents are brought in, one by one or in pairs, to show off their abilities. Matt’s obviously never seen the content on it, but he knows that the clients are given a tablet to scroll through full of all their stats - power rankings, strength rankings, special skills - as well as the embarrassing glamour shots Trish paid that photographer at the _Bugle_ to take. Matt doesn’t know why the clients can’t just _imagine_ him in a tuxedo at whatever semi-dangerous formal outing they need to take him to, but Trish assures him that the pictures have been instrumental in closing many a deal, and Matt supposes he can’t provide a solid argument otherwise.

Luke’s first - he’s usually first, being _very_ impressive - and Matt listens from the agents’ lounge as Trish introduces him to Nelson. Nelson greets him warmly, with no discernable increase in nerves - until Luke hands Malcolm a gun and stands there while Malcolm fires six bullets at Luke’s torso.

“Holy shit!” Nelson says, heart rate skyrocketing. “I mean. Excuse my language. But holy shit!”

Matt smiles as Trish picks up a bullet from the ground and hands it to Nelson so that he can see the flattened head. “Mr. Cage is impervious to bullets, blades, flames, acid, and explosions up to a fairly large scale.”

“That’s.” Nelson gulps faintly. “That’s handy, I guess.”

“It’s been useful in the past,” Luke says, and Matt glowers. _He’s_ supposed to be charming Nelson, not Luke.

He listens as Luke lifts some heavy weights while Trish rattles off a few of his accomplishments. She calls Jessica in next, and Nelson lets out a squeak as Luke tosses the last weight to Jessica on his way out. Jessica catches it easily, of course, one-handed even - and, if Matt’s any judge of her character, while smirking.

“So what’s Matt’s sugar daddy like?” Danny asks as Luke returns to the lounge.

“Nothing special,” Luke says with a shrug. “Blond. Chubby. Goofy tie. Friendly enough, and he didn’t have that attitude, you know, the kind where it feels like they want to punch you in the stomach as hard as they can to feel better about themselves.”

“Aw, he’s a gentleman. Congrats, Matt.”

“Shut up,” Matt says, standing up. “We’re up next.”

He and Danny head for the demo studio, waiting outside until Jessica’s finished. “I was surly as hell, Murdock,” she mutters as she walks past. “You owe me a drink.”

Matt refrains from pointing out that she’s _always_ surly as hell, and follows Danny into the studio.

“Daniel Rand and Matthew Murdock,” Trish says, and they shake hands with Nelson in turn. He doesn’t expect Nelson to recognize him - he was wearing a mask last night, after all, and it was dark - but he’s wary just the same. But Nelson’s heartbeat is steady, if fast, and there’s no hitch of recognition in his breath.

In fact...playing a hunch, Matt lets his hand linger in Nelson’s just a little too long, and gives him his most charming smile. Nelson grows just a tiny bit warmer, imperceptible to anyone but Matt.

Excellent.

“Mr. Rand is a master of most Eastern martial arts, with a specialty in kung fu,” Trish explains. “He is internationally ranked as one of the best fighters alive. He also possesses the metahuman ability to harness his chi into a powerful weapon. We call it the iron fist.” Danny goes very still, concentrating, and then Matt feels the bright point of heat coming off of him that means his fist is glowing, pulsating with power. “It’s a bit too destructive to unleash in a simple demonstration, but we do have video examples of the iron fist in use on the tablet. Mr. Rand also possesses healing abilities, although we do not expect you to be injured while under his protection.”

From the tablet’s tinny little speaker comes the sound of fighting, and then the explosive force of the fist. Matt’s only been around Danny when he’s had to use it twice. He doesn’t have any desire to be in that kind of situation ever again.

“Mr. Murdock is also trained in a wide range of martial arts, with an emphasis on boxing and stick-fighting as well as gymnastics,” Trish continues, crossing to the wall where they’ve mounted several weapons. “And yes, as you may have surmised from his glasses, he is blind. However, his other senses are enhanced to a degree that more than compensates. You can read through the stats on his precision and range on the tablet, but trust me: Mr. Murdock has a better sense of his surroundings and any potential threats than you or I do.”

She takes down two escrima sticks and tosses one at Matt’s head. He snags it easily and gives it a breezy twirl like a baton, smiling at the soft, impressed noise from Nelson. Trish sends the second escrima stick wide so that Matt has to move to catch it - back when she threw both at his face, clients tended to think there was some trick to it. He sets them both twirling and starts juggling them as Trish continues: “Aside from abetting his combat abilities, Mr. Murdock is an ideal choice if you have any concerns about surveillance.”

Matt smiles again, keeping the sticks moving. “Most recording devices tend to buzz.”

“God, now I have to worry people are spying on me and not just trying to beat me up in the street? That’s a fun new ulcer to add to the collection.” Nelson lets out a tired sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “I guess it’s better to know than not know, right?”

“Of course,” Trish says soothingly. “And now...Mr. Rand, Mr. Murdock, if you don’t mind?”

“Our pleasure,” Matt says. He catches the sticks and hands them back to Trish - but he makes sure he’s facing Nelson as he strips off his shirt. Slowly.

Yep. That’s Nelson’s heartbeat ticking up even faster. This will be easy. Sure, Nelson responds to Danny shucking his shirt off too, but Matt’s been reliably informed that Danny has a hell of a tattoo.

“You’re shameless,” Danny murmurs as they bow to each other, so low only Matt can hear it. “I better be your fucking _best man_ after this.”

Matt rolls his eyes, not that Danny can see it behind the glasses. He has no sexual interest in Nelson, of course. But Matt emerged from the other side of an awkward puberty with what are apparently the kind of looks that make most women and more than a few men all too willing to let their guard down around him. He’s not above using that professionally - or in the service of his freelance work.

And it’s not like Matt’s alone in this. There are glamour shots on the tablet Nelson’s holding for a reason, and they’ve all flirted with potential clients to secure a contract, or active clients to keep them manageable. The easiest way to keep a client happy and safe is to manipulate them without letting them _know_ they’re being manipulated; every Defender is a master at that, and pretty smiles and flat bellies are just two tools in their arsenals.

So Danny really should know better than to tease. This is standard operating procedure. There’s nothing different about Nelson from the dozens of clients who’ve preceded him. But that’ll be clear enough once Nelson is rotting in jail beside his boss. Until then, Danny can think what he wants.

Matt and Danny straighten out of their bows, and they begin.

It’s just light sparring, really, and they’ve done it so many times Matt could probably walk through it in his sleep, but it’s been designed to look impressive, mostly by virtue of moving so fast. It’s also largely defensive, for obvious reasons: Danny attacks and Matt parries, then turns his block into a counterattack. It's a rapid flurry of blows and reversals and it never fails to wow a crowd.

But it could be _more_ impressive. Danny’s got Matt in a staged hold when Matt murmurs “Be right back.”

Then he turns the hold into a throw, dropping Danny to the floor. Danny lets him have it - Matt’s good, but he knows perfectly well that Danny’s better - and Matt uses the momentum to ricochet off the wall and into a handspring off the arm of the couch and, twisting into an aerial over Nelson’s head. He gives him a cheery smile and wave as he flips past him, close enough to feel Nelson’s startled breath on his cheek.

By the time he hits the ground again, Danny's back on his feet and waiting, but the fight’s over and they both know it. Trish stands up. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she says, and they bow to each other, then to Nelson, before filing out.

“Showoff,” Danny mutters.

“Oh, like you don't ask me to take a fall whenever the client’s a pretty girl,” Matt points out.

“Yeah, and you _never do_.”

Matt shushes him, and Luke and Jessica too as he and Danny enter the lounge. “I'm listening.”

“...didn't have a weapon, so I don’t think...that is, it seems like Mr. Cage might be overkill? God, I hope this whole thing is overkill,” Nelson is saying. “Sorry, no offense.”

“None taken,” Trish says, still gently soothing. “We would prefer as few threats to your safety as possible. But it’s always better to be safe than sorry, of course.”

“Right.” It’s harder for Matt to pinpoint Nelson’s body language exactly at this distance, but he seems to be nodding. “And Ms. Jones seems like, uh, she, um, might not be happy with the assignment.”

“Mm.” Trish is always politic.

“I think, uh. I think Mr. Murdock? Might be the best choice? For me, I mean.”

Matt grins. Jessica snorts. “He picked you, didn’t he? Look at you. That face is gross. You’re gross.”

“Shhh,” Matt says, but it’s too late - he’s missed the details of the assignment. Oh well. He’ll get them all from Trish later. He tunes out her conversation with Nelson as they move on to paperwork and listens to Jessica and Danny doing their best to instigate Luke into either laughing or losing his temper or both.

Twenty minutes later, Trish is in the doorway again. “What the fuck was that, Murdock?”

“Our little Matthew has a _crush_ ,” Jessica says.

“I already told you, it has nothing to do with that…” Matt protests.

Trish holds up a hand. “Spare me. You’re on an indefinite contract, live-in status with Sundays off. I’ve recorded his full statement about the threat and Malcolm will have it for you on a zip drive, but basically he got jumped last night and thinks it’s some kind of weird corporate espionage thing. My guess is that someone just wanted his wallet, but you know. Stick around for a couple weeks, nothing’ll happen to him, we all get paid. Sound good?”

“Sure,” Matt says. Two weeks should be more than enough time to find out anything Nelson knows, especially if he’s living in Nelson’s apartment.

“Great. You’ve got two hours to get your things together. Luke, can you take Mr. Nelson home and secure his apartment?”

Luke gives an easy shrug. “Sure. You want me to give him the shovel talk, too?”

“Absolutely,” she says, and ruffles Matt’s hair despite his annoyed huff. “We can’t have our little Matthew’s heart getting broken, can we?”

“I promise you, my heart is not in danger.” Matt stands up and unfolds his cane with great dignity. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go pack.”

He pretends not to hear his coworkers laughing as he leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

Nelson only lives a five minute walk from Matt's apartment, so Matt doesn't bother to hurry as he packs the go-bag he uses for live-in assignments: clean clothing, a toothbrush, his billy clubs, a Braille novel so that he can keep his ears tuned for potential threats...and black clothing and mask, tucked into a hidden compartment in case a client gets nosy. Nelson’s on one of the blocks that was reconstructed after the Incident, as opposed to Matt’s crumbling pre-war building. It’s a little odd that someone pulling in the kind of salary that Fisk pays - the kind of salary paid by someone who can afford _Matt_ \- would live in Hell’s Kitchen at all. Even Matt can afford to live somewhere else, though he knows he never will.

But then, Hell’s Kitchen _is_ slowly re-gentrifying, three years after the Incident, and newly-built apartments that are going for an arm and a leg now are projected to cost that plus both kidneys in a couple of years. Nelson’s probably banking on the gentrifiers being right about Hell’s Kitchen being the new Williamsburg.

Matt hates gentrifiers almost as much as he hates criminals.

Luke escorted Nelson home, so when Matt arrives, Luke gives him a quick security briefing. It's legitimately a very safe apartment, which makes things easier - if they’re relatively secure in Nelson’s home there’s no need for him to hire multiple Defenders to guard him in shifts. There’s a doorman on duty in the lobby twenty-four hours a day, and the apartment itself is on the twelfth floor, high up enough that no one’s likely to try coming through the windows. All of the windows lock, anyway, and there's both a deadbolt and a chain lock on the door.

And, of course, the only person actually after Nelson is Matt.

Luke leaves when they’re done, muttering, “Don’t let your dick lose us a client” on his way out, which Matt politely ignores. Matt turns to Nelson.

“Well,” he says, with a smile right on the border of deniably coy. Nelson’s heart, which has been beating fast since Matt arrived, ticks up further. “I guess it’s just the two of us, Mr. Nelson.”

“Um. Yes,” Nelson says. “Do you...uh, I guess, um, Mr. Cage gave you a walkthrough, but do you want a proper tour? I can show you where you’ll be sleeping and, uh. Stuff.”

Nelson is a surprisingly good tour guide, for all that his descriptions come out as a bit of an anxious, stream-of-consciousness babble. He starts using clock coordinates to point things out to Matt almost immediately, and encourages him to touch whatever he wants early on, with only the faintest hint of a blush. It helps that the apartment, for all the elegance of the building it’s in, is not huge, with just two bedrooms - three if Matt counts the small, cluttered office - and one and a half baths. Interior design is mostly lost on Matt, but even he can tell that the furniture is scanty and not particularly expensive.

“Sorry, I know the apartment is kind of sad-looking. A lot of it’s mostly my old IKEA stuff from when I was a law student,” Nelson explains. “My ex-girlfriend Marci keeps telling me to hire an interior decorator and just let them handle everything, but I feel stupid hiring someone to buy throw pillows for me, you know?”

“It looks great to me,” Matt says, and there’s a beat before Nelson starts laughing.

“Thank you. I’ll tell her you said that. Always good to have a strong vote of confidence,” he says. “Anyway, here’s the guest bedroom. Sorry I can’t offer you your own shower, but when I got the place I didn’t expect to have anyone staying the night who I wasn’t, uh.” This time the blush is much warmer. “Right, so! Make yourself at home, and let me know if there’s anything you need. Or...shit, I think my fridge is pretty empty. There’s coffee, at least. You drink coffee?”

“Yes, Mr. Nelson.”

“Great, so we can get takeout tonight and then I guess we’ll do a grocery order tomorrow. That way you can let me know what you like to eat. Does...is that good, does that work?”

“That should be fine. I don’t mean to be an imposition.”

“You’re not...Christ, you’re here to keep me alive, that’s hardly an imposition, Mr. Murdock.” Nelson rakes his hands through his hair, sending up a soft _shuff_ sound and a waft of tea tree oil. His hair sounds surprisingly long; Matt wonders if the oil makes it especially soft. “I can definitely buy Jif instead of Skippy for you if it’ll help me live to my thirtieth birthday.”

Matt’s surprised by his own laugh. “Just Murdock is fine. And I promise, there’s no need to adjust your usual Fresh Direct order on my account. But speaking of why I’m here, perhaps we could talk about what happened to you last night? I have your file and I’ve listened to your statement, of course, but any additional details you can provide would be helpful.”

“Oh, sure, okay.”

They settle on the couch, Matt sitting just a little closer to Nelson than necessary. He can smell a faint whiff of clean sweat from Nelson, a chemical jumble of nerves and arousal, and makes himself hide his smile. This part requires seriousness.

“Tell me what happened,” Matt says.

“Okay. Although...I mean, you guys don’t actually investigate, uh, threats, do you?” Nelson asks. “Because the police are on it, and I didn’t think…”

“No, we just provide security,” Matt says. “But it’s easier for me to do that if I know exactly what I’m protecting you from.”

Nelson nods. “Right. That makes sense.”

And he tells Matt about being attacked by...well, Matt. Matt expects some embellishing, a slight reframing of the story to make Nelson seem more heroic or his mysterious masked attacker more threatening, but Nelson’s version of the tale is accurate.

Well. Matt’s pretty sure he doesn’t sound as ridiculous when he growls as Nelson’s impression makes him seem. But other than that.

“...and then my friend Brett - he’s a cop, he was coming over to watch the game with me - he showed up and yelled something, and the mask guy was like, _this isn’t over_ , and then he did some kind of insane flippity parkour move up the fire escape and over the roof, and…” Nelson shrugs. “That’s what happened.”

 _Flippity._ That’s a new one. “Do you know why this man attacked you?” Matt asks. “It sounds like more than an elaborate mugging.”

Nelson shakes his head. “No. I mean, he asked me about my boss, but I don’t even know how he knew who I work for. My boss is...he’s a really private guy, I’ve only even met him once.”

“What does your boss do that a man like this would be questioning you about him?”

“That’s the weird thing, he’s just a real estate developer,” Nelson says, and his heart says truth. “I have no idea why someone shady would be getting all up in his business.”

And his heart says _lie_.

Matt keeps his expression politely, neutrally curious with an effort. “Maybe he mistook you for someone else. Or your employer.”

“I hope so,” Nelson says. “Honestly, I never would have hired you on my own. I mean, no offense, I’m sure you do great work, but this is Hell’s Kitchen. I grew up here. I’ve been mugged before, I’ve been hassled before, I can take it. It’s just, he was asking about my boss so I mentioned it to Mr. Wesley - that’s my boss’s assistant, I mostly communicate with him - and he was adamant that I hire some security. So here you are.” He shrugs again. “I’m hoping the man in the mask realizes that he made a mistake and this all blows over.”

Not if Matt has anything to say about it. He’s a little surprised by Nelson’s bravado, because Nelson was certainly scared of him last night, and he’s seemed anxious all day. Then again, if he was pressured into hiring security he’s not comfortable with, that could explain it.

It's not the only thing surprising about Nelson’s statement. “You grew up in Hell’s Kitchen?” he asks.

“Forty-Ninth and Tenth,” Foggy says, and Matt frowns.

“Wait. Are you...isn’t that where Nelson’s Hardware was?”

Nelson nods. “My father’s place. I’m just glad I could afford to pay off his loans so he could finally retire. He and my mom are out in Jersey now.” He chuckles. “Which is good, because if they were still in the neighborhood they’d be dropping by all the time, and I _definitely_ don’t need them finding out about you. Both because they’d be worried about me and because Mom would think you were too skinny and try to feed you into submission.”

Matt is very relieved that’s not going to happen, because it sounds overwhelming. “I grew up on Forty-Sixth and Eleventh,” he offers. He's not sure why. It's not really relevant.

“I know,” Nelson admits, and then, “Well, not your exact childhood address or anything, I’m not a creepy stalker, but, uh. I remember when we were kids, your, uh, your accident. I followed your story in the papers pretty obsessively for a while there. Saving that old guy? You were kind of my hero.” He sounds sheepish and embarrassed, but his heart still says _truth_. “I mean, they didn’t say anything about enhanced senses, but...I guess once Ms. Walker said your name, once I realized you were _that_ Matt Murdock, I just sort of felt like if anyone could keep me safe, you could. I...I hope that’s okay.”

“I.” Matt has to pause for a minute, to collect his thoughts. These are all just about the last things he ever expected Nelson to say. He’s had people in the past hear about his accident, or remember reading about it in the papers and feel sorry for him, but he’s never had anyone call him a _hero_. He’s not sure he likes it. “Of course it’s okay, Mr. Nelson.”

“Well. Good.” Nelson’s heart is beating like a frantic drum and he’s radiating the heat of a blush, but it still sounds like he’s smiling. “I’m gonna order some dinner. Any preferences? Pizza, sushi, Mexican, Thai…”

“Thai would be great,” Matt says as Nelson gets up off the couch, and realizes belatedly that Nelson’s managed to steer him completely off the subject of Fisk and what Nelson may or may not know about his illegal activities.

Well. That’s all right. Matt’s here indefinitely. Nelson may not have chosen Matt _because_ he’s attracted to him, but he’s attracted to him all the same, and people in lust are all too eager to spill their secrets. Matt will get the information he wants out of Nelson sooner or later. He just has to be patient.

*

After an awkward dinner, Matt retreats to his room, where he sits in bed puzzling over Franklin Nelson.

Nelson is charming, and affable, and generally honest, but he definitely lied when Matt asked directly about Fisk - just like he lied last night. He knows something.

But he _didn’t_ lie when he said he thought the masked man had made a mistake and this would all blow over. Which doesn’t make any sense.

Matt wants to search the apartment for incriminating evidence, particularly Nelson’s office, but it’s too big of a risk on the first night when he hasn’t built up any trust - not to mention has no idea how soundly Nelson sleeps. Instead he reads, keeping his senses half-tuned to Nelson as he putters around the kitchen, watches TV, changes for bed, and turns out the light. Nelson tosses and turns for about twenty minutes before dropping off, his snores a persistent but not terribly grating rumble. Matt falls asleep soon after, no closer to solving the riddle that is Franklin Nelson than he was the day before.

He makes sure to wake up early so that he can time his workout around Nelson’s morning routine. By the time Nelson stumbles sleepily to Matt’s door, stifling a yawn, Matt’s finishing up his pushups, shirtless and, if the way he feels is any indication, gleaming with sweat.

He hears Nelson choke. “Uh. There’s. Um. Coffee’s, uh, coffee’s ready if you want some,” Nelson stammers, heartbeat leaping from sleepy to jackrabbit-fast.

Matt stands up and stretches, just because he can. Nelson’s going to have a heart attack if he keeps this up. “Great, thank you. Would you like to shower first?”

“Uh, yeah, yep, I’ll just...yeah. Milk’s in the fridge, sugar’s...somewhere, help yourself to whatever.” Nelson all but flees into the bathroom.

Matt chuckles to himself as he heads into the kitchen for coffee. It’s surprisingly good. Nelson may work for a scumbag and have cheap furniture, but his taste isn’t always terrible.

Nelson works in a small private practice only a few blocks away, the office space purchased with his first retainer fee from Fisk. Matt knows from following Nelson around that he takes other cases, usually local hard luck ones, but he listens as Nelson chatters about them anyway.

“Being on retainer is great, because it lets me keep the lights on, but I can still help out clients who maybe can’t pay so much,” he explains. “Like, I got partially paid in homemade baklava last week. Baklava, man! My one weakness! Aside from all the other weaknesses, that is.”

Matt chuckles. He’s surprised that it’s genuine. “I can honestly say I’ve never been paid in baklava.”

“You are missing out, buddy.”

They’ve reached Nelson’s office. He reaches for the doorknob but Matt steps in front of him, hand splayed over Nelson’s heart.

“You'd better let me go in first and secure the building,” he says. “There's _probably_ no threat here, but it's better to be safe than sorry.”

The heart beneath his fingers starts to beat faster, though whether that's from attraction or nerves Matt can't be sure. Nelson nods. “Uh, yeah, sure. Do what you gotta do, man.”

Matt lets his hand linger, then trails it across Nelson's chest and down his arm to seize his wrist, to tug Nelson gently into place behind him. “Stay close to me,” he orders, voice low, and hears Nelson swallow.

“Okay.”

He can feel the faint warmth of Nelson's exhalations on the back of his neck as he opens the door and makes his way up the stairs. “Which door is it?”

“First one on the left.” Nelson’s apparently taken Matt's order to heart; he's so close that the rumble of his voice raises goosebumps on Matt's skin.

Matt concentrates. “There's someone in there. Young, female, sitting at a desk. Instant coffee and honeysuckle.”

“Instant...oh, that's Karen, my assistant. She's not an assassin. Or if she is, I'm going to have very stern words with her at her end-of-year review.”

Matt fights not to laugh. He's in his serious, professional bodyguard mode right now. “Let me go in first anyway.”

The assistant looks up as Matt opens the door. “Good morning. Can I help you?”

“No, thank you.” There's no one else in the office, and Matt steps aside to let Nelson in. “All clear, Mr. Nelson.”

“Foggy?” She sounds puzzled, and Matt notices with vague interest that even Nelson’s assistant calls him by the weird nickname Matt’s heard almost all of his acquaintances use.

“Morning, Karen,” Nelson says, sounding sheepish. “Matt Murdock, this is Karen Page, my assistant. Karen, Murdock here is, uh...oh Christ, this is embarrassing. He’s my...temporary bodyguard.”

Karen laughs, then stops. “Wait. You’re serious? You’re serious.”

Nelson rubs the back of his neck. “I...might have gotten jumped the night before last.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me?” Karen stands up as her heart rate skyrockets.

“I’m okay, I’m fine, jeez, don’t look at me like that. Hey.” Nelson reaches out to squeeze her shoulder. “I’m okay. _You_ haven’t been...I mean, no one’s hassled you, right? No one following you home, nothing weird going on?”

“No, nothing,” Karen says. “Not since...well.”

Matt can sense her glancing in his direction. He keeps his expression neutral, but his curiosity is piqued.

“Hey,” Nelson says again. “That’s over. Whatever this new thing is, with me...it’s unrelated. Probably just a mugging.” The faint accelerated heartbeat of a lie. “It’s just, Mr. Wesley suggested some security, and I figured I might as well humor him. And even if there _was_ something to be worried about, we’d handle it together, okay? I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

And _that_ part is truth.

Karen’s heartbeat starts to slow down as they hug, a solid and lingering embrace. Matt stands quietly to the side, politely pretending to be invisible as he tries to work out the subtext of what he’s just heard.

Nelson clears his throat as he steps away from Karen. “Murdock, would you like me to give you a tour of the office?” he asks.

“That would be great, thank you.”

It’s a small space, and the tour doesn’t take long. They end in Nelson’s office, which has a window looking out on a fire escape - not ideal for security purposes, but great if _Matt_ needs to break in at some point.

The window’s open a crack and Matt closes it and thumbs the lock shut. “Sorry if it gets stuffy in here, but I wouldn’t advise leaving this open,” he says. “This way your man in black can’t get in.” Ha. Like Matt couldn’t open one of those locks in his sleep.

“Right. Yeah. I wasn’t...I don’t normally think like that,” Nelson says.

Karen knocks on the doorframe. “I’m going to pick up coffee, can I get you boys anything? Foggy, the usual?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Nelson says.

“Black coffee would be great, thank you,” Matt says.

She’s out the door in a swirl of long hair and faint honeysuckle perfume. Nelson sits down at his desk. “I probably should’ve told her yesterday why I was leaving the office early. She worries.”

Matt nods, leaves a delicate pause, then says, “It sounds like the two of you might have run into something dangerous before…?”

“Yeah, I figured you’d be wondering about that,” Nelson says. “Last year she was working at this company called Union Allied. Her boss was embezzling funds and she tried to blow the whistle on him. So he framed her for murder.”

Matt blinks. “What?”

“Yeah, she goes out for drinks with this coworker of hers, gets drugged, and wakes up next to his bloody corpse.” Nelson gives a little shiver. “My friend Brett - he’s the cop I told you about - mentioned it to me in passing, because it was kind of a weird case, you know? Secretary found covered in blood, no alibi, but swearing up and down she didn’t do it. So I asked around, because Union Allied was a client of the firm I was working for then, Landman and Zack. Turned out her boss had this whole embezzlement scheme going on and was trying to cover it up. I was able to clear Karen’s name but she was pretty over working at Union Allied after that, understandably enough, so when I went solo I offered her a job, and here we are.” He gives a little shrug. “Her old boss killed himself in jail, which, you know, _horrifying_ , but that kind of put an end to all of that. Still, she’s skittish about shit like this. I don’t blame her. Hell of a way to be introduced to life in New York.”

“I’d be skittish too,” Matt says, frowning inwardly. Poor Ms. Page went from the frying pan to the fire, if she’s working for a man so close to Fisk. And yet that seems to be genuine concern in Nelson’s voice when he talks about her. “It was good of you to get involved in her case like that.”

“Not really. I just did what anyone would do.”

It’s an expression, so it probably wouldn’t register on Matt’s senses as a lie even if Nelson didn’t believe it, but there’s something about the way he says it - totally without ego _or_ false humility - that tells Matt he means it. He really believes that most people would investigate a stranger’s murder case on the off chance she might be innocent.

And just like that, a piece of the Nelson puzzle clicks into place.

He’s an idiot.

Oh, sure, he’s a witty enough talker, and he’s clearly a more than capable attorney, but Matt knows the type. Life has worked out well for him, so he naively assumes that it works out that way for everyone - that people are basically good, that karma punishes the bad, and that he can trundle along being generally nice and everything else will sort itself out. No wonder he has no problem working for Fisk - he must legitimately believe that Fisk is nothing but a real estate developer. It doesn’t quite explain the couple of lies Matt’s caught him in, but it brings his worldview into focus.

Matt doesn’t have the luxury of that kind of worldview. He hasn’t since he was a child. _Some_ people are good, yes, but most take the self-interested path of least resistance. And there’s no karma or fate or whatever to punish the bad - not until the hereafter, at least.

Luckily, this city has Matt to do it instead.

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Mr. Nelson,” he says with a bland smile.

Nelson shrugs, and then - “Oops, sorry, I just shrugged. Is that...can you tell that? I saw your stats, and the, uh, the demonstration, but honestly I don’t totally understand how your senses work.”

Matt keeps the bland smile on. This conversation is inevitable - it happens with all of his clients. “Yes, I could tell. I always tell people not to think of it as four separate senses - that’s not really how it works in my brain. If I really wanted to, I could break it down to, oh, say, hearing the fabric of your jacket bunch up around your shoulders and feeling the air currents shift from your movement, but I don’t do that any more than _you_ would think, ‘Ah, my eyes have perceived his shoulders moving up and down in a gesture expressing uncertainty.’ I just know that you shrugged.”

“You can feel air currents?” Nelson repeats, sounding impressed.

Matt can sense a lot more than that, actually. He can hear the fabric of Nelson’s clothes rubbing against his skin and the slight creak in his joints as his shoulders move. He can hear the brush of his hair against his jacket and smell the sudden waft of his shampoo as the ends are stirred. He can feel the movement of Nelson’s whole body, a map of heat and aroma flickering in his mind, that clean vanilla scent a faint presence on the back of his tongue.

He almost never describes his senses in those terms, though. The intimacy of it makes people uncomfortable. He’ll save it for when he’s making Nelson uncomfortable on _purpose_.

“It helps to identify movement,” he says instead, and braces himself. This is usually the point where clients start throwing things at him to see if he’ll catch them.

But Nelson doesn’t throw anything, just makes an amused sound. “So what you’re saying is, if I get really excited about something and do jazz hands, you’ll catch me.”

Matt’s own snort of laughter takes him by surprise. “Is that something that’s likely to happen?”

“Hey, man, I can’t tell when the music’s gonna move me.” Nelson cocks his head. “So how bad is, say, the subway for you? Horrible, right?”

“It’s pretty bad,” Matt admits. “Not the smell so much - I’ve gotten good at filtering the bad smells out - but the noise is a lot.”

“I’ll bet. Is it the worst thing you hear?” Nelson asks. Matt shakes his head. “Really? That awful screeching? Come on, what could be worse?”

Matt pauses. “Crying,” he says finally.

“...Oh.”

Matt swallows. That was more honest of an answer than he was planning to give. He opens his mouth to change the subject, to lighten the mood, but Nelson beats him to it.

“What’s the _best_ thing you hear?”

“I…” Matt has to pause again, frowning. “Honestly, I’ve never thought about it.” He’s saved from the ensuing awkward silence by a footstep in the hall. “However, I _can_ hear that your secretary’s back.”

“Oh! Great!” Nelson’s voice is a little too bright. Matt doesn’t wince, or visibly rankle at what he knows is pity. “Uh, speaking of which, I should get to work. What will you…?”

“I can just hang out in the other room,” Matt says.

“Won’t you be bored?”

Matt smiles. It feels more forced than usual. “The days where you just stand around doing nothing are the good ones in this business. Don’t worry about me, Mr. Nelson.”

“Well, if you say so,” Nelson says as Karen’s footsteps draw nearer and the doorknob clicks. “I won’t.”

_Lie._

Karen comes in, a cardboard tray with three cups in it balanced in one hand. “Black coffee,” she says, pressing a warm cup into Matt’s hand and brushing off his murmured thanks, “and a vanilla latte for the boss-man.” Well, that explains the vanilla scent. “Also, I used petty cash to buy myself a cookie because you make me stress-eat, Nelson.”

“That’s fair,” Nelson says. “Thanks for picking these up.”

Matt stands up and follows Karen out of Nelson’s office, positioning himself by the front door so that he looks professional and ready, but not threatening. He doesn’t want to scare Karen - from what he can tell, she hasn’t done anything wrong, and besides, Nelson’s clearly protective of her. Matt needs to be in her good graces to maintain Nelson’s trust.

Still, a bodyguard in her office, even one calmly sipping coffee, is clearly unsettling Karen. She keeps fidgeting. “Are you sure you’ll be comfortable like that?” she asks finally.

Matt nods. “I’m fine, thank you. Pretend I’m not here.”

“Unlikely,” she mutters. There’s a swish as she tucks her hair behind her ear. “Do you think Foggy’s really in danger?” Her heart pounds. She’s worried.

“Not while I’m around,” Matt says, which is absolutely true.

“Okay,” she says, and turns back to her computer. “Good.”

But she doesn’t sound convinced at all.

*

The next eleven days do their best to be boring.

Normally that’s par for the course. Matt wasn’t lying when he told Nelson that standing around doing nothing is the bulk of a bodyguard’s job - especially a bodyguard who happens to know that there’s no actual threat. He spends his days standing by Nelson’s door, or following him to court or the local precinct or his client’s apartments and businesses. Those last visits are the most interesting - Nelson’s clients tend to be hard luck cases, working class people being pushed around by the cops or their insurance companies or faceless government bureaucrats. Matt drinks countless cups of coffee in narrow, threadbare kitchens while Nelson listens to his clients’ stories and explains their legal options in friendly layman’s terms, often while jouncing a baby on his knee - babies universally love Nelson, it seems, and the feeling appears to be mutual - or scratching the chin of an inquisitive cat.

The Nelson of these visits, warm and relaxed, is in marked contrast to the Nelson Matt hears the one time he gets to observe him arguing a case. In court Nelson’s wit goes sharp-edged, digging into the soft underbelly of the prosecution’s arguments and eviscerating them. It’s not hard to see why Wilson Fisk would want a man like Nelson representing his interests.

Unfortunately for Matt, Fisk never gets in direct contact with Nelson. His assistant, Wesley, does stop by twice. His footsteps are nearly silent, drowned out by the tick of his expensive watch despite the leather-and-polish smell of good shoes, and Matt imagines it's because he doesn't walk so much as glide in on his own oil slick. He is unfailingly polite, and every word out of his mouth, even his “Good morning” to Karen, sounds like a lie. Matt wants to punch him whether he's committed a crime or not.

Maddeningly, though, his conversations with Nelson don't give Matt anything to go on - just dry specifics about cases. Neither of them ever even says Fisk’s _name_ , though Matt cranes his ears to hear every word.

Rummaging through Nelson’s office at night doesn’t give him anything either - the few files that aren’t laser-printed and thus impossible to read by touch have no bearing on Fisk or his doings. Another dead end.

Matt works his frustrations out on patrol. Nelson sleeps like the dead, and after that first night it's a simple matter for Matt to evade the building’s security cameras by slipping out the window, to shake off the too-steady beat of Nelson’s heart and trade it for the wildness of the streets. He keeps his patrols short and pointed - he's not going to be much of a bodyguard if he's falling asleep at his post - but he can't avoid the occasional injury.

Luckily, he has Claire.

“For a bodyguard, you’d think you’d be better at keeping yourself in one piece,” she says as she applies a butterfly bandage to the knife wound on his tricep. He’ll have to keep that side angled away from Nelson until it heals a bit to avoid uncomfortable questions. At least it doesn’t need stitches - Matt would have done the bandaging himself, but the angle was bad.

“I didn’t get this on the job,” he says.

“Of course you didn’t. For that you go to the hospital. Like a _sane person_ ,” she retorts, and tosses him his shirt. “How do you keep paying for all these fancy compression shirts you’re shredding if you only use all those muscles pro bono?”

“Oh, I have a client. In fact, I’m technically on the clock right now.” He tries not to wince as he pulls the shirt back on. Claire always makes a little gloating noise when he admits to pain, even non-verbally, as if it’ll help convince him to stop doing what he does.

If pain bothered him, he’d never have started.

“Wonderful. I’m sure Mr. or Ms. Moneybags feels very safe with you half-dressed in my kitchen,” she says, tone laced with wry amusement.

“He’s asleep, and that place is a fortress. And in a just world he’d sleep a lot less soundly than he does,” Matt says. He frowns once it’s out of his mouth, uncomfortable. Nelson may be pleasant to be around personally, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s working for - and, Matt’s pretty sure, knowingly aiding and abetting - a criminal. There’s no reason Matt should feel guilty for what he just said.

“So why are you working for him?” Claire asks.

“Do _you_ like everyone you stitch up?” Matt asks.

“Of course not. You’re here, aren’t you?”

Matt laughs. “I’m working an angle,” he admits. “This client might have information that could lead to something. You remember those Russians that roughed me up the night you found me? I think he’s connected.”

“‘Roughed you up’?” Claire repeats. “Matt, they almost killed you! You sure you should be protecting whoever this guy is?”

“I’m fine,” Matt assures her. “Trust me. I may not like how he makes his money, but my client’s harmless. He’s basically fooling himself into thinking he’s doing the right thing. He might not even have the intel I need, he’s got his head so far in the sand.” He shrugs, then winces when it pulls at his bandage. Claire makes the triumphant noise. “I’m probably just going to give it another few days and then try something else.”

It unsettles him, saying it out loud. He’s getting nowhere with Nelson but things still feel unfinished, like there’s something there that he could figure out if he just tried hard enough. And he doesn’t have any other angles to work if this one doesn’t pan out.

But following Nelson around all day isn’t stopping Fisk.

“Well, be careful,” Claire says, and Matt smiles as he reaches for his mask.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, heading for the window, and pulls the mask on. “This guy can’t hurt me.”

*

He really is on the verge of telling Nelson there’s no discernible threat and giving the whole thing up as a bad job. That is, until the argument.

It happens on the tenth day. Nelson’s visited by a new client, a little old lady named Elena Cardenas who’s being strong-armed out of her rent-controlled apartment. She smells like soap and rosewater and calls Nelson “Senor Foggy.” Matt stands quietly out of the way and doesn’t let himself interrupt Karen’s clumsy translation of Mrs. Cardenas’s Spanish.

“I’ll talk to Tully for you, get you a better payout,” Foggy offers.

Even in the other room, Matt can sense her shaking her head. “No,” she says. “Senor Foggy, we do not want money. This is our home.”

“I understand that, Mrs. Cardenas,” Foggy says, very kindly. “But I used to work for Tully’s lawyers. He’s been selling all his holdings up and down your block for the past two years. If you want to try to stay in your apartment, it’s gonna be a long hard fight, and we still might not win, and in the meantime there won’t be any repairs or maintenance done in your building while he tries to force you out. Why not take the settlement and move somewhere where the landlord isn’t an asshole? Excuse me, a...a jerk.”

Matt frowns. That isn’t right. Even if Mrs. Cardenas takes Tully for a few grand more than his initial offer, it’ll barely be a drop in the bucket compared to what he’s liable to earn selling the whole building. Sure, it could make a big difference to someone like Mrs. Cardenas, teetering on the edge of the poverty line - but this is her _home_. If she wants to fight to stay in it, Nelson shouldn’t be talking her out of it.

Mrs. Cardenas clearly isn’t thrilled with Nelson’s advice, but the man is convincing, and by the time she leaves the office she’s kissing his cheek and thanking him. Matt opens the door for her and bids her a pleasant goodbye in Spanish.

“You speak Spanish?” Nelson asks, sounding surprised.

“My language skills were listed on the tablet,” Matt points out.

“Right.” Nelson pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, are you okay?”

Matt tilts his head, puzzled. “Of course,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Sure,” Nelson says after a pause, and walks away.

But that evening, while they’re cleaning up after an unusually quiet dinner - Nelson insisted that Matt shouldn’t have to do anything approximating chores when he’s already _working_ every second he’s with Nelson, but Matt hates feeling useless, so they’ve settled into a routine where Nelson washes and Matt dries - Nelson suddenly turns the sink off, dries his hands, and leans his hip against the counter, facing Matt. “Okay, seriously, what’s with you?”

“What do you mean?” Matt asks. “Nothing’s with me.”

Nelson snorts. “Buddy, we’ve been living together for over a week now, I think I can tell when you’re in a bad mood. What’s going on? You’ve been all…” He waves his hand. “Exuding _waves of disgruntlement_ since the appointment with Mrs. Cardenas this morning.”

“I’m not…” How does Matt even reply to that? “I’m not exuding anything.”

“Please. You exude. You’re captain of the S. S. Exudery.” Nelson folds his arms. “Spill.”

Matt tries not to make a face. He’s not thrilled that apparently his emotions show on his face more than he thought, and he doesn’t know _what_ to think about the fact that Nelson can read him so easily. He’s supposed to be observing Nelson, not the other way around.

“I…” he starts, pauses, then tries again. “Do you think it was right, telling Mrs. Cardenas to sell out like that?”

Even as he says it he knows he phrased it poorly; suggesting that Nelson is in the moral wrong isn't likely to go over well. But Nelson just makes a thoughtful noise. “I'm trying to get her the best deal I can. Sometimes that means compromising, even when the client doesn't want to.”

“But she shouldn't _have_ to compromise,” Matt argues. “What Tully did, sending guys in to smash up the place, that's illegal.”

“Well, yeah, obviously,” Nelson says. “But Tully has a fleet of lawyers who’ll say it wasn’t.”

“And Mrs. Cardenas has you,” Matt points out. “You’re a brilliant lawyer. You’re saying you can’t beat them?”

Nelson’s body temperature goes up half a degree in what Matt can only assume is a pleased flush. “I probably can, eventually,” he says. “But the legal system is slow, and Tully’s lawyers will drag this case out as long as they can, hoping to outlast her. If he has to wait six months or a year to sell the building, it doesn’t make a huge difference to him - but it’s six months Mrs. Cardenas is living without clean water, without electricity, without a working lock on her door, and for what?”

“For the principle of the thing!” Matt says. “To show that she won’t be railroaded!”

“She can’t drink _principles_ ,” Nelson says. “She _can_ , however, use me to negotiate for a better payout and move to a better apartment where the landlord isn’t a total shithead.”

“While _this_ total shithead gets his way.”

“I don’t _care_ what Tully gets!” Nelson says. “I mean, yeah, sure, if the world were a fair place he’d lose all his money and have to live in the kinds of slums he’s been putting people like Mrs. Cardenas through for decades, but I’m not going to drag Mrs. Cardenas into a fight just to beat Tully, especially when he’s gonna stay a filthy rich douchebag either way.”

“So you just roll over because you don’t want to bother?” Matt asks before he can stop himself.

“No, I _protect_ my _client_ ,” Nelson snaps. “Yes, she’s losing her home, and that’s wrong, and I’m sorry about it. But at least my way, she’ll have money in the bank, and she’ll be _safe_.”

Matt frowns. “What do you mean, safe?”

Nelson’s heartbeat ratchets up. “I...nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Safe from what?” Matt presses.

Nelson turns his head away, then back, all nervous tension. “Hell’s Kitchen is changing, Murdock. I work for a real estate developer, okay? This is not something that is going to slow down, or stop. The neighborhood you and I grew up in is going away, and for someone like Mrs. Cardenas, the best thing to do is take what she can from it before she leaves.”

“Or what?” Matt asks. This is starting to sound what he came for - inside information on Fisk’s illegal activities. “What is F-- your employer doing?”

Nelson’s heartbeat goes even faster. “I didn’t say my employer was doing anything. His records are clean. I’m just saying that there are people out there who would go to extreme measures to get a few tenants nobody cares about out of their rent-controlled apartments. I don’t want Mrs. Cardenas to run afoul of them.”

It’s not a lie - not exactly. But his heart is racing, and Matt can smell the beginnings of sweat at his palms, his temples. There’s something behind this, something close to what Matt’s been trying to uncover.

Matt licks his lips. “Mr. Nelson, if there’s something you know…”

“You know what? I kind of have a headache,” Nelson interrupts. “I’m gonna go lie down for a bit. Don’t worry about the rest of the dishes, I’ll take care of them in the morning.”

And Matt can’t think of a way to keep him from walking away.

*

“I was thinking,” Nelson says over coffee the next morning, and Matt puts down his cup and turns his full attention to Nelson, because Nelson’s heart is going fast enough that this must be important. “Maybe we should call this off at the end of the week. The bodyguard thing, I mean.”

Matt’s very glad he already put his coffee down, otherwise he probably would have spilled it. “What?!”

Nelson’s heartbeat speeds up further. “I mean, no offense! You’ve been...great, it’s been great having you here. You’re good company.” That...doesn’t sound like a lie, which is sweet but strange. “But, I mean, no one’s come after me this whole time. Maybe the masked weirdo realized he had the wrong guy.”

No. Nelson is definitely the right guy. Matt just needs more _time_. “Or he’s waiting until you’re unprotected.”

“I think you’re overestimating how much time anyone is going to spend paying attention to me,” Nelson says, sounding amused. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the concern, but come on. You’ve got to be bored doing nothing but hanging around me and twiddling your thumbs.”

“You’re not boring,” Matt says automatically, because that’s ridiculous. “Mr. Nelson, I’m sure Ms. Walker would be happy to rework your contract with us to suit your needs, but I cannot advise dismissing your security entirely.”

“Seriously, Murdock, I’ll be fine. I always thought hiring a bodyguard was an overreaction, and now we know I was right.” Nelson stands up and pats Matt on the shoulder as he walks past him. “Let’s just finish out the week and call it a win, okay? I’m gonna go get ready for work.”

He’s not lying. But Matt can’t help but notice that Nelson’s trying to dismiss him less than twelve hours after he implied that it was unsafe to push back against his employer - less than twelve hours after Matt pushed a little too hard for the truth.

Maybe Nelson truly believes there’s no threat; maybe he’s just worried that Matt’s getting too close; maybe it’s a combination of the two. Either way, Matt’s going to have to do something about it.


	3. Chapter 3

Luckily, the next day is Sunday, his day off, and he already has lunch plans with his coworkers. He’s halfway through his salad when he puts down his fork and says, “I need one of you to attack my client.”

“I’ll do it,” Jessica says immediately, and then, “Any particular reason, or just for fun?”

“He’s planning on ending the contract at two weeks because there haven’t been any further threats,” Matt explains. “I need him to reconsider.”

There’s a long and very heavy silence. “Uh, that’s not really how we’re supposed to drum up business,” Luke says finally. “If there’s no threat, we move on, remember?”

Okay, yeah, he should have anticipated this reaction. “There was never any threat,” he admits, because Jessica will weasel the truth out of him anyway. “I was the one who attacked him in the first place.”

Another long pause, and the clink of his dining companions putting their utensils down.

“Is this it?” Jessica asks, breaking the silence. “Am I finally not the most fucked up one here?”

Danny snorts, and she kicks him under the table. Matt sighs. “Nelson works for...someone I’ve been trying to get information on. Someone unsavory,” he explains. It’s safer if they don’t know the name - and probably wiser not to say it out loud in public anyway. “I tried to scare the intel out of him, but didn’t get very far. But now I have _access_. I can bring this whole thing down, I just need a little more _time_.”

“Wait, whoa, I thought you were just stopping muggers and shit,” Danny says.

“I was!” Matt says. “But more and more of these low-level criminals seem to be connected. There’s someone at the top pulling the strings, and right now I’m sharing a bedroom wall with his _lawyer_. I’m not going to get an opportunity like this again.”

“Thirsty, Murdock, very thirsty,” Jessica says over her beer glass.

Matt rolls his eyes, even though she can’t see it behind his glasses. “That’s not what this is about, and you know it.” She makes a noncommittal sound. “Look, I know this is a lot to ask, but if I can get the information I need out of Nelson, it’ll make Hell’s Kitchen a lot safer for a lot of innocent people. Please?”

He can tell they’re exchanging glances. He wishes he could read their expressions, but it still might not help. He’s always sort of been the odd man out in their group, probably largely but not entirely because he’s the only one not sleeping with Luke, off and on.

“I mean, I’ll still do it,” Jessica says finally, and steals a crouton out of Matt’s salad. “I love terrorizing people for a good cause.”

“Nah, you’re too memorable. He’d recognize you,” Danny says.

“So I’ll wear a disguise.”

“Babe, your idea of a disguise is wearing a shirt that’s an actual color,” Luke points out.

From the tone of her voice, Matt can tell she’s scowling. “Like any of you fuckers would recognize me if I wore pink.”

“I certainly wouldn’t,” Matt drawls, and grins when Jessica flips him off. “If Jessica’s too memorable, I assume Luke is too? At least, that’s what I’ve gathered.”

“That’s what I’ve gathered, too,” Luke says, his tone amused.

“Sounds like I’m being volunteered,” Danny says. “All right, Murdock, loan me a clean pair of your black pajamas and I’ll chase your boyfriend straight into your loving arms.”

Matt hadn’t thought of Danny dressing up as, well, _Matt_ , but it makes sense. As far as he knows, Nelson doesn’t suspect a connection between Matt and the man in the mask, but Matt might as well derail any suspicion entirely. “Thanks,” he says. “And he’s _not_ my boyfriend.”

“Sure, not yet. That’s why you need Danny,” Luke says.

Matt turns his attention eating the rest of the croutons out of his salad before Jessica can, rather than deigning to respond to their snickering. The things he has to put up with to protect Hell’s Kitchen, honestly.

*

It’s probably a little too convenient to have Danny go after Nelson that night, but with only two days left in his working week, Matt’s suddenly on a very tight schedule. At least tonight provides him with a prime opportunity. The first Sunday after he’d been hired, Nelson had stayed home all day, still skittish without his bodyguard. This morning, however, he’d told Matt over breakfast that he was heading to his parents in Jersey to help them clean out the garage, “which will surely lead to tears, slamming doors, wills being rewritten on the fly - it’ll be a party.” He’d probably be back around ten, he’d said.

By nine, Matt and Danny are on the roof of a building two blocks away, one that Nelson will have to walk past on his way home from Penn Station. Danny’s wearing a set of Matt’s crimefighting clothes, though he had to find a different fabric that he could actually see through for the mask. Matt’s wearing normal street clothes, albeit ones that are dark enough that he’s less likely to be spotted getting into position.

“So just...you know, get all growly and menace-y, shove him around a little, but don't actually _hurt_ him,” Matt says, keeping one ear cocked for the sound of Nelson’s approaching heart.

“I _know_ ,” Danny says, sounding exasperated. “I'm not gonna damage your boyfriend, Matt, don't wor--”

“Shh!” There it is, the familiar steady beat of Nelson’s heart. “He's two blocks away. Go, get ready.”

Danny makes some noncommittal grumbling sounds but moves off. Matt makes his way down to street level and ducks out of sight, ready to intervene at the right moment.

Nelson comes down the street, whistling something jaunty and vaguely familiar. He’s got his hands in his pockets and a tote bag slung over his shoulder with what smells like leftovers in it - ham, Brussels sprouts, buttery potatoes, the plastic smell of tupperware. His heartbeat is steady, his gait relaxed, the picture of bucolic unconcern.

For just a moment, Matt wants desperately to live with Nelson in whatever universe it is he inhabits, where he can stroll down the street of somewhere like Hell’s Kitchen in total contentment, happy and safe in his own skin. Who would Matt be if he could be walking beside Nelson right now, as easy and safe as the song Nelson’s whistling?

He shakes the feeling away. It’s ridiculous, and more to the point, it’s a distraction. Danny’s heartbeat is picking up. It’s time.

Danny leaps out of the shadows rather more dramatically than Matt would have. “Franklin Nelson!”

“Shit!” Nelson’s heart starts to race as he backs up, fumbling with something in his pocket, dropping the bag with the leftovers in the process. “Back off, seriously, I already told you you’ve got the wrong guy!”

“I think not,” Danny booms, and Matt resists the urge to smack his palm into his forehead. He sounds _nothing_ like that. “You’re going to tell me what you know. _Now_.”

Nelson gets his hand out of his pocket, keys jingling, and something stings faintly at Matt’s nose. Oh. _Oh_ , it’s pepper spray, and Matt’s torn between admiration and concern for Danny. “I said back off!”

But Danny can handle himself, of course. He leaps into a totally unnecessary but gorgeous spinning kick that sends the keychain flying out of Nelson’s hand.

“Ow! _Shit!_ ” Nelson hisses, drawing his hand back towards his chest, and anger roars hot in Matt’s blood. He’s _hurt_ , Danny _hurt him_ , Matt _told_ him to be careful and he didn’t _listen_ \- 

“Listen, you asshole…” Nelson starts, and he doesn’t _sound_ like he’s in that much pain, but Matt’s already moving, slipping out of his hiding place and booking it down the street.

“Oh, I’ll listen.” Danny shoves Nelson up against the nearest building, hands on his shoulders. “I’ll listen while you tell me everything I want to know about your employer.”

“I’m not going to - ”

“ _Hey!_ ” Matt charges into Danny, catching him around the waist and sending him crashing to the ground. Actually, Danny’s going into a controlled fall and shielding Matt from the impact, but it _looks_ good.

“Ma-Murdock!” Nelson says as Danny flings Matt off of him and they both spring to their feet. Matt maneuvers himself between Nelson and Danny.

“Are you okay, Mr. Nelson?” he asks.

“Yeah, shit, yeah, I’m fine, be _careful_ \- ”

Danny feints, and Matt kicks him in the side, where it’ll sting but not do any lasting damage. Danny lets out a surprised yelp. Matt suspects Danny’s glaring at him. “Get out of my _way_ ,” he snarls, still way too dramatic.

“No. Stand down before I put you down,” Matt says. “Mr. Nelson, could you please call the police?”

“Uh,” Nelson says behind him.

Danny puts his hands up. “Fine. I’m going. But you can’t babysit him forever.” He points at Nelson. “Sooner or later I’ll get you to break.”

“Uh,” Nelson says again. Matt scents a whiff of fear and moves a little closer to Nelson, offering reassurance, then belatedly remembers that he _wants_ Nelson scared.

“Next time, Nelson,” Danny says, and makes for the nearest fire escape. He’s over the roof in seconds.

Nelson lets out a sigh of relief, but Matt’s still listening. And sure enough… “You owe me, Murdock,” Danny murmurs from the roof, too quiet for anyone but Matt to hear. “If that doesn’t get you laid, nothing will.”

Matt bites back his snort. Seems like that joke’s not going away any time soon. He turns his attention back to Nelson, standing trembling behind him. “Are you okay, Mr. Nelson? I was headed back to your apartment and I heard...did he hurt you?”

“Yeah...I mean, no, I’m fine,” Nelson says.

Matt reaches for his hand. “It sounded like he kicked you, are you _sure_ …”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” Nelson says, but his breath hitches when Matt tests his fingers to make sure they’re bending and straightening properly, and Matt can already feel the heat and swelling starting in the smallest one. Nelson’s heart is still racing. Matt’s going to _kill_ Danny.

“Let’s get you inside,” he says.

Inside, Matt fills a ziploc bag with ice cubes, wraps it in a dish towel, and holds it to Nelson’s fingers. He knows from experience that it’s awkward holding an icepack to your own hand, so he pulls up the two barstools at the kitchen counter so that they can sit together, and holds the icepack for Nelson.

“Thanks,” Nelson says.

“It's my job,” Matt says. “I'm just glad I got there in time.” He pauses. “Would you like me to call the police?” Nelson hasn't done so yet, and Matt doesn't know if it's because he's been too frazzled by Danny’s attack, or if he's not planning on calling them at all. Matt doesn't _want_ to call the cops on Danny, of course, but it would look strange if he didn't offer.

“I don’t.” He hears Nelson swallow. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

Matt turns his attention from Nelson’s hand, surprised. “Why not?”

“Well, they didn’t take it too seriously the _last_ time I told them I was attacked by a mysterious man in a black mask, and that was when I had an actual cop witness it,” Foggy says, a little wry. “Besides, I…he keeps asking about my employer.”

Matt’s own heart starts to race as he leans in. This is it. “Why would the man in black be asking about your boss?”

“I don’t know.” It’s a lie. “I mean, I don’t...I think that...there have been some things, lately, that…” Nelson stops and sighs. “I’m sorry, Murdock, I can’t talk about this with you. Any more than I could talk to the police about it. Attorney-client privilege.”

With an effort, Matt reins in his impatience. “Are you saying there are things your employer is doing that you _should_ be talking to the police about?”

“I’m saying that I _can’t talk about it_ ,” Nelson says, more sharply than Matt’s ever heard him speak before.

Matt keeps pushing. “Mr. Nelson, if it’s a question of your safety, I need to know…”

“I’m not worried about my safety. It’s a question of trust, and professional ethics.” There’s a lie on the end of that, but Matt’s not sure what that implies about what the truth is.

Nelson pulls his hand out of Matt’s and closes his free hand around the ice pack. “Look, I’m really tired. It’s been a stressful night. I’m just gonna go to bed.” He stands up. “I guess you were right, it’s too soon to cancel your contract, so, you know...belay that order. And...thank you for saving me.” He starts to head towards his bedroom, then stops in the doorway to look back at Matt. “There’s leftovers in that bag I was carrying, by the way. From my folks’. I don’t know if they’re still good after I dropped them, and I know it’s late for dinner, but…” He shrugs. “I didn’t want you to miss out on a home-cooked meal.”

He closes the door, and Matt sits there, half-listening as he gets ready for bed. Now, more than ever, he’s _sure_ that Nelson knows something unsavory, something that could incriminate Fisk, and maybe himself. Maybe something big enough to bring Fisk down for good. And he’s covering it up.

But he brought Matt _dinner_ , because he thought Matt needed a home-cooked meal.

Matt will save it for tomorrow. For some reason he’s got a stomachache right now.

*

By morning he’s pretty sure he pushed too hard. Nelson’s usual well of endless chatter seems to have dried up; he doesn’t even react to Matt squeezing past him in the hall on his way to the shower, shirtless and sweaty after his morning workout. He’s anxious, if his fidgets and the slightly accelerated pace of his heart are any indication, but it’s not because he’s attracted to Matt.

“Any meetings today, Karen?” he asks when they arrive at the office. She shakes her head, a swish of heat and hair in Matt’s senses. “Good. Hold my calls until lunch, would you?”

The click of his office door shutting has an air of finality to it, especially since he _never_ shuts that door.

“I’m having weird deja vu of my days in corporate America,” Karen says, and turns to Matt. “What’s with him?”

Matt doesn’t want to tell her, but he can’t lie; she’ll find out the truth from Nelson sooner or later. “He was attacked last night.”

Her heartbeat ratchets up. “The same nutjob in the mask?”

“Apparently.” That’s not even a lie, technically. “It was my day off, but luckily I was heading home in time to hear it and…” He shrugs. “He’s not hurt. The assailant got away, though.”

“Jesus.” Karen rakes a hand through her hair, a stressed tic Matt’s noticed a few times. “What does this asshole even _want_ from him?”

Matt gives the tiniest of shrugs, not enough to make his body language unprofessional. “Mr. Nelson’s convinced he’s got the wrong guy.”

“Yeah? Someone should tell the nutjob that.” She shakes her head, then tilts it back up at Matt. “Thanks for saving him.”

“It’s my job, Ms. Page,” Matt says, and takes his usual place by the door. He needs to look into changing up their grocery order, the next time Nelson places it. For some reason, he’s still nauseous this morning.

*

Nelson’s closed off and squirrelly for the next three days. He takes almost no client meetings and spends the day shut up in his office; at home, he does the same, holed up in his home office while Matt tries to concentrate on a book.

Matt listens in, of course, but it gets him nowhere. Whatever Nelson’s doing, it involves a lot of reading, a lot of typing, and a lot of muffled swearing under his breath, but nothing Matt can translate into action. Did Danny’s attack put the fear of God into him? Is he trying to cover up Fisk’s illegal activities - or his own, so he can get himself clear? Hell, he could be penning the Great American Novel, for all Matt knows.

There are phone calls: hushed, anxious ones. But not to Fisk or even Wesley, much to Matt’s chagrin. Some seem to be to banks, because Matt hears dollars and routing numbers. Some are to his parents, asking if they’ve noticed strange cars or gotten weird calls. Matt would think Nelson was planning to make a run for it, but the rest of the calls are to Sergeant Mahoney, and Matt would’ve sworn he was clean.

Besides, the stupidly naive part of him that Stick never quite managed to silence doesn’t think Nelson would abandon his other clients like that.

Then Wesley comes into the office.

Matt forces an instinctive glower off his face and listens to the conversation behind Nelson’s shut door.

“...making some calls to Silver and Brent?” Wesley asks.

“Oh, those.” Nelson’s surprisingly breezy, considering how fast his heart is pounding. “I was just looking into a couple of hinky accounting numbers. Turned out to be a typo, no big deal.” Lie.

“I’m a little concerned you didn’t bring your questions to me. It probably could’ve been cleared up much more quickly than it was.” Lie.

“Honestly, I didn’t think it was a big enough deal to bother you.” Lie. “I’ll call you first in the future.” Lie.

“Excellent.” Matt wonders if Wesley’s smile looks as unctuous as it sounds. “Now, to my real business…” Wesley launches into some byzantine details about real estate holdings and tax codes, the details of which lose Matt almost instantly. He snaps to attention again, though, when Wesley mentions a building owned by his employer containing “a criminal element.” That’s what Elena Cardenas’s sleazy landlord said about _her_ building.

Nelson must think the same thing, because he says, “Junkies?”

“If only,” Wesley says dryly. “We’re concerned that the Russian mob may have set up shop in one of the abandoned buildings. We’ve asked the police to look into this, but…” Matt can sense him spreading his hands as if helpless, as he lies through his teeth. “I wouldn’t concerned yourself with that aspect. Just steer clear of that corner if you can until this mess is straightened out. I saw on the way in that you still have your security.” Matt feels his lip curl slightly. “That’s good.”

“Yeah, he’s...Matt’s been...uh. He’s been helpful,” Nelson says.

_Matt._ Matt’s so startled by Nelson’s use of his first name that he misses the rest of the conversation; a minute later, Wesley’s bidding an insincere goodbye to Karen and making for the door.

Nelson lets out a tired sigh once he’s gone. “Hey, Karen?” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Stay clear of the abandoned building on 45th and 11th, would you? Apparently the Russian mob’s holed up in there or something, I don’t know.”

“Jesus. Okay, yeah, thanks.”

“Yeah.” Nelson pauses. For a minute Matt’s sure Nelson’s looking his way; then he goes back into his office and shuts the door.

*

Nelson works late that night, long after the sun’s gone down and Karen has bid them both goodbye. He comes out of his office tired and subdued.

“Sorry I kept you so long. You must be starving,” he says as he locks up behind them. “We’ll get takeout tonight, whatever you want, okay? Even that weird health food place with all the sprouts that you ask Karen to get you lunch from sometimes.”

Matt hadn’t realized Nelson noticed what he ate. “It’s not a problem, Mr. Nelson. But thank you.” He tries a flirtatious smile, something to lighten the mood. “I bet I could get you to like sprouts if I put my mind to it.”

But Nelson doesn’t blush, or even smile if his tone is any indication. “Sure,” he says distractedly, and they lapse into silence.

The silence might be a good thing, though, because as they draw near Nelson’s street Matt hears it: low, tense voices talking in Russian. Normally he wouldn’t think anything of it - Hell’s Kitchen is full of all sorts of people speaking all sorts of languages - but one of the voices sounds familiar.

And then, suddenly, in English but with a strong accent: “What about the other one?”

“Shoot him if you want. Who cares? All he said was, kill the fat lawyer shit.”

And the click of a hammer.

“Foggy, get down!” Matt shouts, tackling him to the sidewalk as a gunshot _cracks_ through the night. They hit harder than he’d like, with Matt’s arms around Foggy to protect his head and spine, body on top to take the bullet. It misses, pinging off the wall above their heads.

“Wh - what?” Foggy asks, breathless, terrified.

“Stay behind me and keep your head covered,” Matt says. The Russians are coming around the corner now, weapons drawn - two of them, shit, it’s those asshole brothers who kidnapped the little boy.

Matt keeps himself between them and Foggy, wishing he had the billy clubs safely packed away in his bag upstairs. But no, those are weapons for his night job - no way of explaining them when the mask is off. Why didn’t he work some kind of weapon into his Defenders profile?

“One chance to get out of way,” one of the assholes tells him, gesturing with his gun.

Matt gropes in his pockets. Keys. They’ll have to do. “No thanks,” he says, and throws the keys at Asshole #1’s face as hard as he can.

They hit him in the eye. He screams and drops his gun. “Anatoly!” Asshole #2 cries and fires a few rounds at Matt before turning to check on his brother, who’s on his knees and clutching his face.

“Stay down,” Matt barks at Foggy, and darts forward. It’s risky, but he can’t give the brothers time to recover.

Asshole #2 whirls. Matt kicks the gun out of his hand. “You fucking - ” the asshole starts to say, and Matt punches him.

“Who sent you after Nelson?” he demands. “Who wanted him dead?” Foggy lets out a frightened squeak behind them and Matt’s blood boils.

“Fucking kill you - ” Asshole #2 says, lunging at Matt. Matt turns into the first blow, letting it glance off his ribs, then catches the asshole’s arm and flips him over his hip. He hits the street, head cracking against the asphalt.

Matt stands over him and grabs him by the shirt. “Answer me!” he demands. “Who’s trying to kill - ”

The asshole’s head lolls back. Shit. He’s unconscious.

Matt lets him drop and limps towards Asshole #1, who’s clutching his eye and scrambling for his gun. He needs _answers_ , he needs - 

“Matt?”

Foggy sounds _terrified_ , and Matt remembers that revenge can wait. Right now he needs to make sure Foggy is safe. He steps on Asshole #1’s - Anatoly, apparently - hand with a satisfying crunch of breaking fingers and listens to him scream, picking up the gun that’s just out of reach.

“We’re calling the cops,” he says, removing the clip and collecting the other gun and his keys. “You’d better start thinking about what you’re going to tell them when they ask you why you tried to kill my client.”

“Fuck you,” Anatoly spits. The air is thick with the scent of blood, but Matt can’t tell if the eye’s ruined or not. He doesn’t care. “We kill you both.”

“I doubt it.” Matt limps over to Foggy, putting a protective arm around his shoulders. He can feel a fine tremble running through him. “Hey. It’s okay, it’s over. Let’s get you inside.”

“ _Matt_ ,” Foggy says, choked. “Your _leg_.”

Oh. _Oh_ , that’s why - that’s why he was limping. He’s bleeding and his thigh’s stinging - not enough to make Matt worry, just enough to hurt like hell. One of the bullets must’ve tagged him.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Come on, let’s go, I don’t want to wait and see if these two have friends.”

In the lobby of Foggy’s building, Matt drops the guns on the security guard’s desk and says, “Call the police and tell them to arrest the two men outside for attempted murder, then ask them to come up and I’ll give them a statement.” Ignoring the guard’s startled spluttering, he gets Foggy into the elevator and up to his apartment.

“Just breathe,” he says as soothingly as he can, though he’s not a soothing person by nature. “You’re fine. You’re safe. The cops will be here soon. Let me make you a cup of tea and - ”

“Matt, you have to go to the _hospital_. You were _shot!_ ” Foggy interrupts.

“I’m fine.”

“You were _shot!_ ” Foggy’s hyperventilating. “You can’t make me tea, you can’t do anything for me. You’re _fired_.”

That brings Matt up short. “What?”

“I said you’re fired,” Foggy repeats, voice tinged with hysteria. “You’re fired, okay? I can’t...I can’t have you getting shot for me, I can’t have people almost dying for me, that’s not...this is my problem, not anyone else’s, and I can’t...I can’t…”

“Hey. Hey.” Matt knows this is crossing a professional boundary, but he can’t hear Foggy this upset and not do anything about it. He takes two steps and wraps Foggy up in his arms. “It’s okay, shhh, you’re okay. Breathe for me, Foggy. Please.”

Foggy takes a hiccupy breath in Matt’s ear, and then another, and another. Matt pulls him in closer, hoping that his calm will transfer a little. He’s probably getting blood all over Foggy’s pants, but hopefully Foggy will forgive that.

He’s not going to fire Matt. Matt won’t _let_ him. Not now that he knows Foggy’s really in danger.

“This is the job, right?” he says. “This is what I’m here for. To keep you safe. And I _do_ know how to do that without getting hurt. The bullet just grazed me, Foggy. I’m fine. Trust me.”

Another rattling breath, but Foggy sounds calmer, his heartbeat less of a frantic rattle against Matt’s ribs. “I do trust you,” he says, and it’s not a lie, and for a moment Matt feels dizzy. Maybe he’s lost more blood than he thought.

He takes a step back. “Let me bandage this, and then we can argue over who gets to make the tea before the cops come, okay?”

Foggy laughs, a wet, exhausted sound, but nods. “Okay. Okay.”

It really is just a graze, they discover once Matt’s pants are off - enough to dig a trench through Matt’s flesh, but not enough to do serious damage. Foggy insists on bandaging it himself, though Matt has to talk him through it. His hands are gentle, so gentle even when he’s disinfecting the wound and Matt barely feels the sting of it, too focused on Foggy’s heartbeat from where he’s kneeling on the floor in front of Matt, warm and close. Matt’s strangely annoyed when the cops come and Foggy has to get up to open the door.

He and Foggy give their statements and Matt hands them one of his cards so that they can confirm his employment with the Defenders in the morning. The Russians are gone, they’re informed - managed to get out of there between Matt and Foggy leaving the scene and the police arriving. Matt curls his hands into fists and wishes...but no, Foggy needed him. He had to get Foggy inside.

Foggy closes and locks the door behind the cops and leans against it. “So now I have a masked nutjob _and_ crazy Russians gunning for me, huh?”

Matt pulls a face. “That’s about the size of it.”

Foggy nods. “Hey, instead of tea, how about we get _super drunk?_ ”

Foggy’s got a good bottle of scotch in his liquor cabinet, better than anything Matt’s dad ever drank and three-quarters full. He pours two glasses over Matt’s half-hearted protests. “Come on, you got shot tonight! In the movies they always need a slug of brandy before they pour it over the wound or whatever,” Foggy points out. “Plus, you’re still fired. You could probably use a drink.”

“I really am fine, Mr. Nelson,” Matt says as Foggy puts the bottle down.

“Thought you were calling me Foggy now.” Foggy lifts his glass. “Thanks for saving my life, by the way.”

“All part of the job,” Matt says, pauses, and adds, “And it’s a life worth saving.”

Foggy’s heart stutters, but all he says is, “Flattery won’t get you your job back, Murdock,” and clinks his glass against Matt’s before taking a sip.

Even with his bandaged leg, part of Matt’s itching to be out on patrol, to hunt down the Russians and _make_ them give up why they went after Foggy. He was _sure_ they were on Fisk’s payroll. Another night he might be gently coaxing Foggy to go to bed, giving Matt a chance to leave him safely behind two locked doors and a security guard so that Matt could get to work.

But Foggy was so _upset_ earlier, just because Matt got a little nick. Matt doesn’t want to leave him, not until Foggy understands that Matt’s okay.

By the time the scotch is closer to one quarter full than three, Foggy’s heartbeat has finally slowed down to a comfortably lazy pace. They’re sprawled on the couch, Foggy’s thigh warm against Matt’s, the remnants of their takeout dinner scattered across the coffee table. Matt hasn’t had as much to drink as Foggy, but he feels sleepy and full and _good_. Even his leg doesn’t hurt.

“Why guarding bodies, though?” Foggy asks. It sounds like he’s continuing a train of thought Matt’s lost. Matt blinks.

“Huh?” he asks eloquently.

“Your job. I mean, obviously you’ve always been a hero…” Matt snorts, and Foggy laughs. “But why this one? Were you just like, hey, the rich douchebags of the world need my services, or what? I’m including myself in that category, by the way.”

“You’re not a douchebag,” Matt scoffs. “You’re great.”

Foggy dismisses that with an airy and somewhat sloppy wave of his hand. “Seriously, though.”

“Why’d you become a lawyer?” Matt asks instead of answering.

“To make a lot of money,” Foggy says, and Matt laughs. “Really!”

“You get paid in _baklava_ , Foggy.”

“Yeah, because I can afford to now. I couldn’t always,” Foggy says, and Matt realizes nothing he’s said so far has pinged as a lie. He frowns, and Foggy shrugs. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. It’s not...I don’t think I’m any more mercenary than anyone else. It’s not about that. But when I was a kid...I dunno, I was probably around nine, so when you were busy leaping heroically into action and saving lives.” Matt snorts again. “Okay, okay. But yeah, that would’ve been around the time that I started listening to my parents talk about money. Or, not listening to, but _understanding_ it. You know?”

Matt nods. He remembers - the landlord asking for the rent, his father’s strained expression when he passed the questions along. Wads of cash with bloody fingerprints on them. Ramen weeks when his dad hadn’t had a fight in a while, and the twist in his stomach that had nothing to do with too much cheap starch and sodium.

“We never had a lot, but it was especially tight, some years. Dad almost lost the store a couple of times. And I…” Foggy sighs. “I would hear them talking about it, worrying about it, and my mom crying, and I remember still being really little and thinking, _that’s not gonna be me_. I was going to make enough money that I would never have to worry again. That _they_ would never have to worry again.” His tone brightens slightly - a smile, probably. “One morning, after I’d heard them talking about it the night before, I asked my dad what job he thought paid better, lawyer or NBA superstar. Bear in mind I was just as much of a chubby, uncoordinated indoor kid then as now.”

Matt smiles. He _likes_ Foggy’s softness, the give of his thigh against Matt’s. “What’d he say?”

“He ruffled my hair and said, ‘NBA superstar, but stick with the law, chatterbox.’ And that was sort of that.” Foggy shrugs. “The fact that I got to law school and actually _liked_ it was just kind of a bonus.”

Matt pauses, gathering his thoughts. Maybe it’s because he’s a little drunk; maybe he just feels like he owes Foggy some truth. Even if he hasn’t talked about this in...a long time, long enough that most days it’s easy to forget.

“My dad...he died when I was a kid, not long after I lost my sight. Murdered, actually. He refused to throw a fight, and…” He waves a hand. The details aren’t important.

“I remember,” Foggy says softly. “Battlin’ Jack. It was in the papers.”

“Yeah,” Matt says. “He never...he never wanted me to fight. He wanted me to use my head, to make something more of myself than he was.” He smiles crookedly. “He’d probably have liked it if I became a lawyer. But that takes time, and money, and I…”

He shakes his head. “I had my heightened senses from the accident. And I had...training, or some of it, at least. I had a teacher when I was a kid who...it doesn’t matter.” He shakes off the memory of Stick. This is hard enough without that. “I did well in school, I got into a lot of colleges, but...they never found the man who’d had my father killed. I knew _I_ could, but it would take time, and money, so…”

He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s not like I didn’t go to college. But CUNY was cheaper than Columbia, and I could study less. Spend my free time training. Searching.

“It turned out he’d changed his name, moved out of Hell’s Kitchen, out on Long Island, the really blue-blood part of it. Not because of me or my dad, but the Murdocks weren’t the only ones he’d pissed off. It took me years to find him, and by then, he’d heard someone was asking around for him under his real name. He knew what that meant, and he had money. So when I finally tracked him down, he’d hired a bodyguard. A man with unbreakable skin.”

“Mr. Cage,” Foggy realized.

“Yeah. And I…I was twenty-two, and stupid-angry, and I didn’t have the training I have now. I didn’t have a chance.” Matt can still remember breaking his fingers on Luke’s ribs, Luke catching his wrist and holding him without even trying. The scream that broke out of him, a nine-year-old in a man’s body raging against a world that wouldn’t fight fair: _He killed my father!_

“Luke told me...he told me to get my head straight. To forget about revenge and _do_ something with my abilities, something good,” Matt goes on. “And I said, ‘You mean guarding murderers like you do?’” He smiles a little at Foggy’s surprised noise. “Yeah, I’m lucky he didn’t hit me for that one. Instead...he let me go.”

“Just like that?” Foggy asks, and Matt nods.

“Sweeney - the man who - well, he wanted Luke to hold me for the cops, but Luke wouldn’t. He said Sweeney’d already done enough to ruin my life, and he wasn’t going to help him finish the job.” Knowing what he knows about Luke now, the fact that Luke was reluctant to send him to jail makes sense - but that’s Luke’s story to tell, and Matt doesn’t have the right to share it. “So he let me go, and I ran. Back home, back to...well, I didn’t have anything then, really. A shitty little apartment. No job, living off of what was left of my inheritance from my father’s last fight. No plans for the future. I’d never seen a life for myself beyond tracking down my father’s killer.”

Foggy’s hand is suddenly on his knee - not a come-on but a comfort, warm and steady. Matt leans into him, into the steady pulse of his heart.

“I was trying to figure out what to do with myself when Luke showed up at my door. Well. Luke and Jessica - Jessica Jones, you met her at the demo. She used to be a PI, and Luke asked her to find me, and, well…” He spreads his hands. “Luke thought I was Defenders material. I don’t know what he saw in me, this skinny, angry kid, but he did, and so did Jessica, I guess. Trish - Ms. Walker - she trusts Jessica more than anything, so when Jessica vouched for me...well. Here we are.” He swallows. “Trish even got this lawyer she knows to help bring Sweeney to trial. He’s in jail for life now. So.”

There’s more, of course. There’s the way he felt empty, hollowed-out those few days before Luke showed up, lost without a goal for the first time since childhood. When revenge was a burning ember in his chest it was like he still knew he was: Jack Murdock’s boy. Someone’s son. Someone who belonged somewhere, even if that somewhere was an apartment that had long since changed hands and a lonely grave out in Brooklyn.

Luke and Trish - they didn’t have to take a chance on him, but they did and that - the two of them, sparring with Danny, learning to bat insults back and forth with Jessica instead of taking them to heart, soup kitchens and community gardens with Malcolm - they gave Matt something to be when he wasn’t anything anymore. Jack Murdock’s boy, the Defender.

He can never thank any of them enough.

“Sounds like I owe Luke a lot,” Foggy says. His voice is low and a little rough, and very close. He’s not pulling away from Matt, not even after that. His hand is still on Matt’s knee. “Without him I wouldn’t have met you.”

“Any of the others would have kept you safe tonight,” Matt says, quietly, loyally. “It’s what we do.”

“Yeah. But I’m glad it was you.” Foggy smells like scotch and lemon and that persistent vanilla, like _home_. “I’m just sort of glad about you in general. It’s a consistent state of gladness that you’re, y’know. You.”

Matt swallows again. “Foggy…” he says, and his hand moves before he gives it permission, cupping Foggy’s cheek, fingers sliding through the softness of his hair. Foggy tilts into it, tilts towards Matt. Matt can _hear_ the moment when his lips part, and the pulse beneath his palm is racing like it did when they first met and Matt would flirt with him.

To get his secrets. Because Foggy is a _case_ and a _client_ and he has no idea why Matt’s really here.

And he’s drunk.

Matt draws his hand back. “I’m,” he starts. “I’m sorry. That was unprofessional. I should...we should probably get some rest. It’s been a long night.”

Foggy shrinks away, body language suddenly stiff and embarrassed. Matt’s knee where Foggy’s hand was is unreasonably cold. “Right. Yeah. We should...you’re right.”

They get up, leaving the living room as it is - Matt’s too tired and tipsy to deal with it now, and he’s sure Foggy is too. He follows Foggy down the hall to the bedrooms; Foggy’s weaving a little in his senses and he’s not sure if that’s because he’s drunk or because Foggy is. He’s so tired.

Foggy pauses in the door to his room. There’s a foot between them but it feels like a mile. Matt’s leg hurts. “Hey, Matt?”

“Yeah?”

“I guess you’re not fired,” Foggy says. “Just...be careful, okay?”

Matt makes himself smile. “Of course, Foggy. After all, I have to keep you safe, don’t I?”

Foggy looks at him for a long moment, then, but all he says is, “Good night, Matt,” before he closes the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get your shit together, Matt.


	4. Chapter 4

Matt wakes from dreams of Foggy with an erection and a pounding headache.

He skips his usual workout in favor of a long shower. Peeling the bandage away and letting the water hit his bullet wound does what the headache couldn't, and vanquishes his boner. He finishes showering, thinking hard as he does.

He was positive, back when the Russians nearly killed him all those months ago, that they were working for Fisk, or at least _with_ him. So either they’ve flipped on Fisk and are trying to chip away at his organization - or Fisk has flipped on _Foggy_. Matt had better figure out which one it is, and fast. The Russians are dangerous like rabid dogs, unpredictable and snarling. Fisk, though, is dangerous like a cancer: you might not even know he's there until it’s too late.

Still, Foggy might be safer under his protection at the moment. It all depends on why the asshole brothers came after him last night.

And why last night, is the other question? Could it have something to do with whatever Foggy’s been busying himself with the past few days? And is there a way to ask him about it that doesn’t tip Matt’s hand?

Matt resolves to try, as he dries off and carefully rebandages his wound, as he gets dressed and starts a pot of coffee. That, and to stop flirting with Foggy. It’s served its purpose; now it’s clearly just confusing something in Matt’s subconscious.

The coffee’s just finished brewing when Foggy stumbles into the kitchen, unshowered and sleep-muddled. “Ugh, my head,” he says, voice scratchy. Something prickly and wanting shivers up Matt’s spine. “Don’t ever let me drink that much again, Matt. You’re supposed to be guarding my body, not pickling it.”

Matt has to swallow before he speaks. “Sorry,” he says, and pushes a cup of coffee into Foggy’s hands - light and sweet, the way Foggy likes it. “I promise to save you from yourself as well as outside threats from here on out.”

He’s not sure if it’s the brush of his fingers against Foggy or the reminder that Foggy’s life is in danger that wakes Foggy up the rest of the way, but suddenly Foggy is brisk and uncomfortable. “Right! Thanks. Uh...how’s your leg?”

“It’s. It’s fine.” Matt steps back and pours a cup of coffee for himself, lets the bitter edge of it chase the rest of his headache away. If Foggy’s uncomfortable it’s Matt’s own damn fault. “I think we should talk about what happened last night. With the Russians,” he clarifies when he feels Foggy start to blush.

“Oh! Right, yeah, crazy people shooting at me, let’s talk about that,” Foggy says.

“You told the police you'd never seen them before,” Matt starts.

“Because I hadn’t,” Foggy says, a slight edge to it. “Did you think I was lying?”

“No! No, of course not,” Matt hastens to reassure him. He thinks about telling Foggy he can hear lies and decides against it. Clients don’t like knowing how little privacy they have from him, and...well, he likes Foggy, but Foggy _is_ still working for Wilson Fisk, and he’s clever enough to figure out how to mislead Matt with half-truths if he knows to do it. “I’m just wondering if you know of a reason they might be out to kill you. Something you...maybe wouldn’t have wanted to tell the police.”

Foggy’s silent for a long time. Matt’s almost sure he’s not going to answer when he says, “I’ve been doing some research.”

“Research?” Matt repeats.

Foggy nods. “On my employer. Not that I...I’m not accusing him of anything, you understand. But when a man in a mask attacks me - twice - and asks about him, I start wondering if he’s not the only one who should be asking questions.”

There’s a buzzing in Matt’s ears. He sits down heavily on the nearest stool, rests his forearms against the cool marble of the butcher block.

“Some of the things I’ve been finding...I don’t know. Numbers that don’t match up. Weird timings. Connections to people who aren’t...who don’t…” He shakes his head. “Anyway, there were some names in there that made me take a second look. Like Rigoletto - known mobster, did ten years in Sing-Sing a while back. He’s dead now. Massive heart attack, supposedly...but then why was it a closed casket funeral? Or this Prohaszka guy - murdered by some psychopath with a bowling ball who got off on a technicality, and suddenly ‘Prohaszka Cab Company’ is showing up on expense reports. And when I look up ‘Prohaszka’ in _Bulletin_ back issues, every article also mentions the Bratva.”

“The Russian mob,” Matt says dully.

Foggy’s heartbeat picks up. “I don’t - I’m not saying it’s Mr. Fisk,” he says, obviously backpedaling. “It’s a big organization. It could be happening without his knowledge. It’s _probably_ happening without his knowledge.” He’s lying. He knows it’s Fisk. He’s anything but stupid. “But I guess someone heard I was asking questions they didn’t want asked, and…” He makes a soft noise. “Sorry. I shouldn’t say any more. My client’s still protected by confidentiality, and besides, the less you know the better. I don’t want anyone coming after you to...to...Matt, are you okay?”

“What? Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He’s not fine. He’s going to be sick.

“You sure? You’re, like, deathly white all of a sudden.”

“Yeah. Just...you’re not the only one with a hangover,” Matt says, and holds up his coffee cup. “I’ll be better after some quality time with this.”

“...Okay. I guess I’ll go shower.” Foggy pauses on his way out of the kitchen, and Matt’s pretty sure Foggy’s giving him a worried look.

The minute Foggy’s gone Matt puts his coffee down and buries his face in his hands. It’s either that or hurl the cup across the room, and that’d bring Foggy running in a heartbeat.

It’s _his_ fault Foggy’s in danger.

The man in the mask asked about Fisk - first Matt, then Danny. That would make anyone suspicious, let alone a clever lawyer. Naturally Foggy would investigate. What else would he do?

And what would Fisk, or his underlings, do if an expendable lawyer started getting nosy? They’re all bloody to the shoulder. What’s one more murder?

And Foggy doesn’t want to tell Matt _details_ because that would put _Matt_ in danger. He hasn’t been squirrelly because he’s moving everything he has to a Swiss bank account. He’s been squirrelly because he’s been trying to _protect_ Matt - Matt and Karen and his family, his innocent mother and father in the home he bought for them in the suburbs, and oh God, what has Matt done?

He wants to throw up. He can’t throw up. Foggy’s in the only bathroom.

He makes himself stand up, makes himself pour out the coffee that’s making the acid rise in his throat. He’ll make this right. It’s the only thing he can do. He’ll stay glued to Foggy’s side during the day, and wring answers out of the streets at night. No matter what it takes.

No one - not the Russians, not Fisk, not the devil himself - is hurting Foggy Nelson on Matt’s watch.

*

Wesley comes by the office that day - an unprecedented frequency, twice in two days. Matt usually hangs out by the front door of the office, but he follows Wesley into Foggy’s private office instead this time. Sure, it’s broad daylight and Karen’s right at her desk, but Wesley _is_ Fisk’s right-hand man, and Matt doesn’t trust him as far as he can throw him. Plus, it can’t hurt to remind Wesley that Foggy’s not without friends.

Wesley turns to look at him before he sits down and says, in a voice like a raised eyebrow, “Is there a problem, Mr…?”

“What’s up, Matt?”

Matt moves to stand next to Foggy’s chair, facing Wesley. “Just providing security, Mr. Nelson.”

“Matt, it’s Mr. Wesley. He works with me. Can’t you, you know…” Foggy waves his hand in front of his own face. “...sense that?”

“You have now been attacked three times. Until such time as the threat to you is neutralized, I don’t think it’s wise to leave you alone with someone,” Matt replies evenly.

“That’s going to put a damper on your love life,” Wesley says. Matt glares at him.

“Matt, I don’t think…” Foggy glances up at Matt, and something in Matt’s face must convince him it’s not worth the argument, because he just sighs and says, “Fine. Stay. If that’s all right with you, Mr. Wesley…?”

“Of course,” Wesley says smoothly. “I’m glad to see Mr… _Matt_ is so conscientious in his duties. Even after being shot.” Matt and Foggy both startle slightly. “Oh, I read the police report. I’m very concerned about your safety, Mr. Nelson, as is my employer. These attacks are becoming more frequent. I had no idea the man in the mask was working with the Russian mob.”

“You think he is?” Foggy asks.

“What other explanation could there be?”

“Mm,” Foggy says. His heartbeat tells Matt nothing. Matt frowns. He knows he’s being ridiculous - that to Foggy, _Matt_ and _the man in the mask_ are two entirely separate people - but he still doesn’t want Foggy to think of him as a killer.

“Given the increased frequency of the threats, my employer is prepared to loan you several members of his personal security team until this is over,” Wesley oils on. “Not that Mr. Matt here hasn't been doing an exemplary job, but my employer’s security is the best in the world.”

Oh, _no_. Leaving Foggy with _Fisk’s_ security? Matt might as well slit Foggy's throat himself.

“I thought you said the Defenders were the best in the world, when you suggested I hire one,” Foggy says. His tone is blase, playful even, but Matt knows him well enough by now to recognize the tension in it.

“Well, yes - of publicly available security,” Wesley says.

“Please tell Mr. Fisk that while I appreciate his generous offer, I'm more than happy with my current security,” Foggy says. “After all, Matt’s saved me twice now. I have every faith that he can do it again, should the need arise.” Every word of it is truly meant, if his heartbeat’s any indication. Matt could kiss him.

No. No kissing.

“Very well,” Wesley says, sounding marginally annoyed. Matt fights to keep the grin off his face. “The offer stands, if you change your mind.” He stands up. “Oh - you'll be getting an invitation in the mail, today most likely. My employer is hosting a benefit for the Hell’s Kitchen revitalization efforts. He'd love to see you there.” He gestures towards Matt. “Bring Mr. Matt here, if you like. He looks like he cleans up nicely.”

“Thank you, that sounds...fun,” Foggy says. He's looking in Matt's direction, but Matt can't read his facial expression from his tone.

“Well.” Wesley inclines his head slightly. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He leaves Foggy’s office. Matt follows him to the front door, and Wesley turns to look at him as they go. “Were you afraid I would get lost?”

“I’m just doing my job, sir,” Matt says, and makes the “sir” as disrespectful as the word will allow.

Wesley stops in the doorway. It sounds like he’s smiling. Matt would really like to know what it takes him to _stop_ smiling. “You’re very devoted to Mr. Nelson, aren’t you, Mr. Matt?”

“I take my responsibility to my client very seriously,” Matt replies. He’s not a big man, but he steps in a little closer, making himself as imposing as he can. “No harm will come to Mr. Nelson on my watch.”

“And what an acute watch it must be,” Wesley says - and then, before Matt can respond, adds “Ta!” and vanishes out the door.

“Wow,” Karen says from her desk. “What a _dick_.”

*

“You’ve been more careful lately,” Claire says as she bandages the cut on Matt’s back. It was short but deep, needing just a few stitches. “Any particular reason you’ve suddenly gotten smarter?”

“My patrol hours are more limited these days,” Matt says. He doesn’t want to leave Foggy alone for too long. It’s especially frustrating because he’s getting nowhere with tying Fisk to the Russian mob no matter how many low-level goons and drug runners he beats up. “Plus, Fo-- my client would worry if he saw me injured.”

“I worry about you all the time, it doesn’t stop you from fighting thirty guys at once on two hours of sleep,” Claire says tartly. “What’s this guy got that I don’t? Besides many thousands of dollars to keep you in paper thin workout gear, I mean.”

“Sorry,” Matt says, because there’s genuine concern under the teasing. “Maybe worry was the wrong word. He’d be suspicious.” No, that’s too strong in the other direction - and Foggy _would_ worry, is the thing. He doesn’t want Matt getting hurt. “Concerned.”

“You worried about getting fired?”

Matt laughs. “Oh no, he already tried that. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re...bodyguarding him without his consent?”

Everything Matt says is coming out wrong tonight. “No, of course not. I just...I got injured protecting him and he was upset. I had to explain that that’s par for the course. I’m certainly not leaving him if he’s in real danger. I’m not going to let him get hurt.”

“Hmm,” Claire says, and hands him his shirt.

Matt pulls it on. “What?”

“Well, last time you mentioned him you said you were only going to give it a little bit more time before giving up. Now you’re pledging your troth or whatever.”

Matt smiles. “That’s not what pledging your troth means.”

“I know what I said,” Claire retorts.

Oh God. Not her too. No wonder Matt’s brain - and dick - is getting all mixed up about Foggy, with everyone harping on him like this all the time. “I’m doing this to keep Hell’s Kitchen safe. He’s part of Hell’s Kitchen. That’s all this is.” He tugs the mask back on. “He’s a good man, Claire. He doesn’t deserve to be dragged down by the monster I’m after.”

“Sure,” she says. “Hey, I gotta tell you - even with the mask on, you’ve got a shit poker face.”

There’s no sense in dignifying that with an answer, so Matt just climbs out the window.

*

“I don’t think you should go.”

Matt can hear Foggy’s exasperated snort from his bedroom. Well, of course he can - he could hear every step of Foggy getting ready for the Fisk benefit. The water pattering off his body in the shower as he hummed snatches of operetta offkey. The scratch of his razor over his chin. The brush of a crisp starched shirt over his skin and the zip of his fly and the gossamer-faint whisper of a silk tie being tied.

“Yes, Matt, you’ve made your opinion on the matter perfectly clear,” Foggy calls. “I’m still not gonna change my mind.”

Matt finishes fastening his cufflinks and reaches for his jacket. At least he’s going as Foggy’s plus one. Foggy didn’t even _suggest_ someone else. Matt won’t have to leave Foggy’s side, _and_ he’ll finally be in the same room as Fisk, and probably at least a few of the upper echelon of his organization. It’s a great opportunity to gather intel on his enemy.

That doesn’t mean that he wants _Foggy_ going anywhere near the man who Matt’s almost positive is now trying to kill him.

“You said yourself that you think someone in Fisk’s organization is behind the attacks on you,” he calls, shrugging into his jacket. They've both stuck with the polite fiction that it's one of Fisk’s underlings and not Fisk himself who's been threatening Foggy, as they've endlessly rehashed this argument over the past week. “Which means they could be at the benefit.”

He’s tempted, for the thousandth time, to tell Foggy his own suspicions about Fisk. Foggy’s brilliant; if they pooled their knowledge, they might be able to build a solid case faster. But that would mean telling Foggy _how_ he knows what he knows, which would mean telling Foggy that he’s the man in the mask...which would mean losing Foggy’s trust, and maybe going to jail himself. He can’t risk it.

“And what exactly are they going to do to me there?” Foggy shoots back. “It's a fundraising benefit in a private mansion. I doubt there’ll be any heavily tattooed Russian mobsters on the guest list.”

Matt leaves his own room and stands in Foggy’s door. Foggy’s facing away from him, fussing with his hair. He smells...he smells _expensive_ , all silk and starch and a subtle cologne that he ran by Matt’s nose before putting it on. Matt's tux has the faint scent of antiseptic and must of a rental, but Foggy owns his, and it just smells like him.

“I just want you to be safe,” Matt says quietly

Foggy turns around, and his heartbeat picks up. “Well, I hope so, or I'm gonna have to leave a really scathing review on Yelp.” He swallows. “Need a hand with the tie?”

“Please.” Matt can handle regular ties fine, but bow ties are tricky even for sighted men, and he's never totally sure if they're crooked when he ties them himself.

Foggy steps in close and Matt lifts his chin, giving Foggy better access to his throat. “I gotta tell you, Matt, Wesley was right about you cleaning up nice. No one should look this good in a rented suit.”

His knuckles brush Matt's Adam’s apple. Matt doesn't want to talk about Wesley right now. “Aren’t you worried?”

“In general, yes. About tonight? Only that it’ll be mind-numbingly boring, or that I’ll have to talk to people with names like Chet.”

“Foggy…”

Foggy sighs. “Matt, I _have_ to go. How’s it going to look if I don’t show up, huh? If...if _someone_ doubts my commitment to my employer and his goals, my sudden absence isn’t going to change their mind.” His tone brightens slightly. “Besides, you’ll be there. And you won’t let anything happen to me.”

He finishes straightening Matt’s tie and smooths down the front of his jacket, hands warm even through three layers of fabric as they glide down Matt’s chest, then steps back to admire his handiwork. “There. Perfect,” he says, and that’s not a lie either.

Matt can’t stop himself from catching Foggy’s wrists before he can drop his hands to his sides. He can feel Foggy’s pulse beating fast and light beneath his fingers. He’s so close.

“I _won’t_ let anything happen to you,” he promises, and wishes, just for a moment, that Foggy could hear his heart as well, to know he means it. “I swear it.”

He can hear Foggy’s breath catch. He can sense Foggy swaying closer, hear his lips part as he does…

...and Foggy steps back again. But when he speaks, there’s a smile in it. “Well,” he says, “that’s good enough for me.”

*

For the first hour, Foggy’s fears about the Fisk benefit seem more prescient than Matt’s: it is, in fact, mind-numbingly boring. Only Foggy's quiet murmurs at Matt’s elbow enliven the proceedings. Matt has to fight to keep from laughing at his commentary, too low for anyone else to hear. Especially when someone named Biff Bickersworth introduces himself over canapés.

“ _Biff_ ,” Foggy groans, after Biff has finished the thrilling saga of remodeling his tennis court and wandered off in search of new victims. “All that time worrying about Chets and I should have been looking out for _Biffs_.”

Matt bites the inside of his lip. “Your name is _Foggy_ ,” he points out.

“Yes, and if I ever introduce myself as ‘Foggy Nelson, of the Hell’s Kitchen Nelsons, old sport,’ don't wait for the Bratva. Knock me over the head yourself and put me out of my misery.”

Matt can't help his quiet giggle. “You could have told him your father owned a hardware store. Offered to help with the remodel yourself.”

“Mention blue collar work _here?_ Bite your tongue, Mr. Murdock!” Foggy says, faux-scandalized. “He would’ve fainted right into these little blini things and that would have been a tragedy. Here, c’mere.”

He's holding one up to Matt's mouth, sweet creme fraiche and briny caviar, and Matt opens his mouth to take it before he realizes he's doing it. Foggy pops the mini-blini into Matt's mouth, fingers brushing Matt's lower lip as he draws them back, and Matt's glad he immediately turns back to the table to get one for himself, because then maybe he won't see the hot flush crawling up Matt's neck.

“Good, huh?” Foggy asks, turning back to him.

Matt swallows. “Exquisite.”

There's a buzz of noise from the other end of the room, a shift in mood, and Matt sense Foggy craning to look. “Well, there he is,” Foggy says. His pulse is beating faster.

“Fisk?”

“In the flesh.”

Matt concentrates. It's hard to sort through the crush of bodies in the ballroom, but he picks through the moving forms until he gets to the center of the crowd, where a man is shaking hands one by one on his way to the microphone. He's a big man - tall and heavyset, yes, but also more _solid_ than Matt was expecting. Everything about him - the way he stands, the way he moves, the way he breathes - conveys sheer physical power. His heart is a steady bass drum, a roll of thunder.

This is the man Matt has set himself again. It’s going to be a harder fight than Matt bargained for.

Fisk makes a speech in a choked, halting voice, like he’s wrapped a leash around a wild bear and is struggling to hold it back. It’s nothing less than Matt expected, the standard hypocritical line about improving Hell’s Kitchen and taking it back from the darkness that is attempting to consume it. The strange thing is that his heart never wavers once. He actually _believes_ what he’s peddling, and that makes him infinitely more dangerous.

When he’s finished, Foggy sighs and fortifies himself with another blini. “We’d better go make nice. Come on - once I say hi we can get out of here pretty quick.”

“Right.” Matt tucks his hand into the crook of Foggy’s arm - he didn’t bother with his cane, but he _is_ wearing his glasses and it’s a reasonable compromise between his amorphous roles as Foggy’s bodyguard and his date - and they set off across the room. They have to weave between servers carrying out trays of champagne, and Foggy snags glasses for both of them on the way.

Wesley is standing at Fisk’s elbow, next to an older man grumbling complaints under his breath as he passes a glass of champagne to a woman wearing a stunningly luxurious perfume. Matt braces himself, but just as they draw near, Fisk excuses himself from his party and follows a man who, from his voice, Matt is pretty sure is their state senator, off to another group a few tables away. Matt’s not sure if he should be frustrated or relieved by the reprieve.

Wesley spots them, however. “Ah, Mr. Nelson and Mr. Matt. You made it. Vanessa Marianna, Leland Owlsley, this is Franklin Nelson, part of Mr. Fisk’s legal team.” Matt doesn’t curl his nose at Wesley’s use of “Franklin,” but only barely. Then he _does_ wrinkle it - something nearby smells off. Someone’s perfume?

Foggy extricates his arm to shake hands. “Pleasure to meet you. This is Matt Murdock, who is...enjoying Mr. Fisk and Mr. van Lunt’s hospitality with me this evening.”

Matt can hear Owlsley’s snort, but he’s pretty sure everyone was supposed to. Ms. Marianna, however, ignores it. “I hope you’re enjoying yourselves,” she says, in a rich, accented voice.

“It’s been very interesting,” Foggy says diplomatically as Matt tilts his head slightly, trying to identify the source of the strange smell. It's not unpleasant, exactly, just… _wrong_. “That was quite a speech Mr. Fisk gave. Very passionate.”

“He’s a passionate man,” Ms. Marianna says, and - oh. That’s love in her voice. She _loves_ Fisk. Isn’t that interesting?

“You can say that again,” Owlsley mutters.

“Well, I for one salute him,” Foggy lies brightly. “Would that we could all be so passionate about such a worthy cause.”

“Hear, hear!” says Ms. Marianna, raising her glass. Foggy lifts his, clinking it against hers before bringing it to his lips and -

“Foggy, _stop!_ ” Matt says, too loud, and everyone in their conversational group freezes, Foggy and Ms. Marianna and Owlsley. He knows they're staring at him, but he doesn't care. He's figured out what the smell is. “It's been poisoned.”

“What?” Owlsley scoffs, and Ms. Marianna laughs as if it was a joke, but Foggy takes it seriously.

“Are you sure?” he asks, lowering his glass.

Matt's already sniffing his own glass. “Positive. I can't identify the compound yet, but it's not anything we want to ingest.”

“Mr. Nelson, this is really not an appropriate joke to…” Wesley starts to say, but he's interrupted by startled gasps and a scream as a woman nearby topples over. Behind them, a man staggers and collapses onto a seated guest. Glasses drop from nerveless fingers to shatter against the marble floor.

“Holy shit,” Foggy says, leaning away from his glass as if the poison will leap out of it into his mouth. All the hearts around Matt are racing, especially Owlsley’s. Matt plucks the glass out of Foggy’s hand, places both of theirs on the nearest table, and puts a protective hand at the small of Foggy’s back. If there's a poisoner around, he doesn't want to take his hands off Foggy until they're safe at home.

“I'm getting Mr. Fisk,” Wesley says, but Fisk is already pushing through the crowd towards them, his security team behind him.

“Vanessa!” he says, putting a hand on her arm. “Are you all right? Do you feel sick? Dizzy?”

“I’m fine, Wilson,” she says, turning into the shelter of Fisk’s protective bulk. “Mr. Murdock stopped us before we could drink the champagne.”

“Wesley, call the police and emergency services, and make sure security doesn’t let anyone leave until we have more information. Leland, you’d better get out of here before they lock the doors,” Fisk says, and Owlsley and Wesley make themselves scarce. Fisk turns back to Ms. Marianna. “It’s the champagne?”

“Apparently.” Ms. Marianna nods towards Matt. “It seems Mr. Murdock...smelled it?”

“Matt is my bodyguard,” Foggy explains quickly. “He has heightened senses, so he...uh, sensed it.”

“I work for the Defenders,” Matt says, using his free hand to pull his business card out of his pocket and pass it off to Fisk. He makes sure to have a few on him at all times for situations exactly like this. The last thing he needs is for Fisk to assume Matt knew about the poison because he had something to do with it.

Of course, _Fisk_ might have had something to do with it. It seems like overkill just to get to Foggy, but maybe he has other enemies here and figured he could take them all out in one fell swoop.

But no, Ms. Marianna almost drank the champagne too, and Fisk seems genuinely alarmed by that. He wouldn’t risk her. He _must_ have been the target.

Fisk reads the card, then tucks it into his own pocket and gravely clasps Matt’s hand in both of his own. His skin is oddly cool. “Thank you, Mr. Murdock. I owe you an immense debt of gratitude.”

“I’m just glad Ms. Marianna wasn’t hurt,” Matt says, his other hand tensing on Foggy’s back. “Or Mr. Nelson. His safety, and that of his associates, is my utmost priority.”

“It seems that you and I are much alike,” Fisk says, and lets go of Matt’s hand to put an arm around Ms. Marianna. “We protect our own.”

Matt can’t help his smile from going sharp at that. “Whatever it takes.”

“Indeed.” Fisk turns to one of the guards standing next to them. “Francis, please make sure Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock are able to pass through security as quickly as possible. I don’t want them inconvenienced by all this.”

“Yes, Mr. Fisk.”

“Thank you, Mr. Murdock,” Ms. Marianna says, and Matt and Foggy are ushered away, past crowds of frightened one percenters and into a waiting cab.

As the cab heads north towards Hell’s Kitchen, Foggy lets out a great whoosh of a sigh and slumps against Matt. “That’s three I owe you now.”

“It’s my job,” Matt demurs. He keeps his voice soft. Foggy’s heartbeat is starting to slow back down to normal.

“I like your job,” Foggy says, and lets his head tip onto Matt’s shoulder.

Matt knows they should talk about what just happened. Maybe not here, with the cab driver in earshot, but soon - about who would have tried to poison Fisk, and whether they’re the ones who are actually after Foggy, and whether Fisk’s comment about protecting his own was a veiled threat.

But the motion of the cab and the weight of Foggy against him are a comfort as the adrenalin bleeds out his system, the feather-soft brush of Foggy’s hair against his chin a distraction that chases serious thoughts away.

They can talk about it later.

“Yeah,” he says. “I like my job too.”

*

Sunday comes again, and with it Matt’s day off. He wakes up well before Foggy, who likes to sleep in on the weekends, and uses the time to fetch proper cappuccinos and fresh-baked bagels with lox from Foggy’s favorite breakfast place. By the time Foggy walks out of his bedroom with a sleepy groan of a yawn that makes the back of Matt’s neck tingle, Matt’s got the table set and his computer playing the morning’s headlines through his earbud.

He pauses the feed and smiles in Foggy’s direction. “Morning.”

“Hey, you didn’t have to do this,” Foggy says. The pleased note in his voice makes it more than worth it, though.

Matt shrugs, feeling warm. “Well, I was getting a bagel for myself anyway, so…”

They linger over breakfast, and Foggy takes over reading the news highlights so that they can discuss them together. “I’m sorry,” he says abruptly when they’re halfway through, putting down his coffee cup. “This is your day off, and here I am keeping you when you probably have plans.”

“Not until later,” Matt says. “And you’re not keeping me. Like you said, it’s my day off. I wouldn’t be here unless I wanted to be.”

“...Oh,” is all Foggy says, but a minute later Matt feels Foggy’s bare foot kick gently at his ankle under the table. Matt smiles and kicks back, and that seems to cover it.

He heads to Fogwell's in the late afternoon, black costume tucked discreetly into his gym bag. It’s more of a warmup than a proper workout, because as soon as the sun goes down he goes back to his own apartment - which feels oddly bare and empty, now - and changes. 

He's been doing his best to squeeze what information he can out of the streets - tracing heroin deals and arms exchanges and beatings from protection rackets - but coming up short. Nothing adds up, nothing makes a complete picture he can act on. But he’s got his teeth in this one and he’s not letting go. Not until Fisk is stopped. Not until Foggy is safe.

He’s by the river when he hears snatches of Russian and catches a whiff of the cheap cologne the asshole brothers and their men favor. Smiling sharp, he edges closer and catches the name “Cardenas.” _Elena_ Cardenas?

“He says he wants her out of apartment,” a familiar, accented voice says, and there's the tinny crackle of a response over the phone. So then yes, they are talking about Elena Cardenas. She's holding firm despite Foggy’s coaxing and so he’s been doing his best to get her apartment repaired despite Tully’s strong arming. Matt’s been thrilled with her resistance - until now.

“No one gets paid until this is done,” the asshole goes on. “If you do not handle tonight - ” A sharp bark of laughter. “That gets rid of fat lawyer too. I guess police are not all bad.”

_Foggy._

Matt hurtles forward, clearing the distance between him and the Russians as fast as he can. There are three, he realizes as he draws close, and he lays into them before they know what’s happening, laying one out with a single uppercut before kicking another so hard in the gut he promptly vomits.

The third - the asshole brother who’s not Anatoly - spits something nasty-sounding in Russian and goes for his gun. Matt kicks it out of his hand.

“You fucking - ” the asshole swears and lunges, glancing a lucky punch off Matt’s temple. Matt reels, staggers back, and kicks the asshole in the ribs. Before he can catch his breath Matt’s on him, slamming him into the wall behind him so hard his brains probably rattle in his skull.

“Nelson!” he growls. “Franklin Nelson and Elena Cardenas! Who were you just talking to? What are they going to do to them?” The asshole says something in Russian and Matt slams him against the wall again. “Answer me!”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” the asshole says. “Read it in tomorrow’s paper. Or go by old lady’s apartment tonight, you’ll see.”

Matt wants to punch the sneer out of his voice, but he doesn’t have time - whatever’s happening, it’s happening now.

“If they die, so do you,” he promises, and knocks the asshole out with a right hook. Then he’s hauling himself up the fire escape, taking off southeast across Hell’s Kitchen, leaping from roof to roof because it’s quicker than fighting the pedestrians and traffic signals below. He hears voices below point him out since he doesn’t have time to stay out of sight, but he can’t care. He’s got to get to Mrs. Cardenas’s apartment. She’s a helpless little old lady, and Foggy…

Matt clenches his fists and runs faster.

He’s two blocks away when he hears familiar voices. “Senor Foggy! Thank you for coming, I do not know what they want, they are saying I go to jail…”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Cardenas, that’s not going to happen.” Foggy. Foggy is there, he should never have left the apartment alone but of _course_ he would rush out to help his elderly client alone, even without Matt. Even if he knew he was risking his life.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, shyster.” Matt doesn’t know that voice. He doesn’t like it.

“Look, officer…”

“Detective.”

“My apologies. Detective...Blake, is it? My client has done nothing wrong. There’s been some sort of mistake here.”

“Really? ‘Cause I got three witnesses say she’s been selling heroin out of here.”

“What?” That’s Foggy and Mrs. Cardenas together. Matt’s close enough to hear their startled heartbeats now.

“That’s ridiculous! Mrs. Cardenas is no drug dealer!”

“There’s a junkie stoned out of his fucking mind right outside her door, pal. How do you think he got that way? Now move over.”

“I’m not letting you take her.”

“Look out, Blake, he’s getting violent - ”

“I see him, I see him - ”

Matt’s close enough to know Foggy’s just standing peacefully in front of Mrs. Cardenas, his heart beating fast with terror, close enough to hear the hammers of the detectives’ guns click - 

\- and then he’s _there_ , crashing through the window, no time to worry about glass in his clothes because the cops are turning, alarmed, and firing. Matt flips sideways and hurls one of his billy clubs at one of the cops, catching him in the throat. “Get away from them!”

“Blake!” the cop still standing says as the other one chokes and retches. Matt puts himself between the cops and their intended victims. “Move, asshole, or I’ll put you down too.”

“I’m not letting you touch them,” Matt growls - and over the thunder of blood in his ears, he hears Foggy’s heart stutter in surprise.

“You think there’s not a price on your head too?” the standing cop asks. “You know how much the big man’ll pay me for bringing you down after all the shit you’ve been pulling? I pop you and the old lady off and bring Blondie here to sing a little song for him, and I can retire somewhere warm next _week_.”

Matt hears his joint creak as his finger tightens on the trigger, and throws the other billy club. He hates to lose the weapon, but it’s worth it - it connects and the gun goes flying.

“I’m gonna clear the doorway,” he mutters to Foggy over his shoulder. “When I say the word, you take Mrs. Cardenas and you _run_ , do you hear me?”

“...Matt?”

_Shit._

Matt’s heart plummets, but there’s no time to worry about that, because Detective Not-Blake is charging him, fists swinging. Matt takes a fist to the face and feels his lip split. He parries, hooks an arm around Not-Blake’s neck and is about to choke off his air when - 

_Thwump!_ “Hey, asshole!”

“No!”

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_ , Blake’s got a gun on Mrs. Cardenas, Matt didn’t even realize he was _up_ again but he is and he’s got a hand on her arm and a gun to her temple. It was Foggy who shouted no, Foggy who Blake shoved to the ground and who is scrambling back to his feet, ready to try for Blake again.

“Foggy, get back!” Matt snaps before he can catch himself, and fuck, if Foggy wasn’t sure of Matt’s identity before he’s got to be now. But Matt can’t care about that - can’t care if the whole _world_ knows who he is, as long as he gets Foggy and Mrs. Cardenas out of this alive. “You pull that trigger, Blake, and I snap your partner’s neck,” he growls, and isn’t even sure if he’s lying.

“You snap his neck, I pull the trigger,” Blake says. “Hoffman, you good?”

“Man, shoot this asshole so we can get out of here,” Not-Blake says, kicking back and connecting painfully with Matt’s knee. Matt tightens his grip until Not-Blake’s gasping for air.

“ _Stop this_ ,” Foggy says. His heart’s beating out of control. “Fisk wants me, right? That’s what you said. So fine. I come with you.”

“Foggy, _no_ \- ” Matt says as Mrs. Cardenas starts protesting in Spanish.

“You don’t need to kill Mrs. Cardenas,” Foggy says. “You just want her out of this apartment, right? Without her lawyer, how long do you think that’ll take?”

He’s either being desperately naive or just trying to buy Matt some time here. Dirty cops like these aren’t going to leave witnesses to a kidnapping alive. They’ll come back to finish the job. But for now, it works. Blake shoves Mrs. Cardenas at Foggy, who catches her with some mangled Spanish words of reassurance, and gestures with the gun. “All right, all right, get over here.”

Matt tightens his grip on Hoffman’s neck. “I won’t let you take him.”

“Listen, you piece of shit - ” Blake starts, but Foggy cuts him off.

“You have to,” he says, moving into Blake’s reach. Blake grabs him by the jacket and points the gun at his head. “I need you to keep Mrs. Cardenas safe. I think you owe me that much.” There’s an undercurrent of bitterness in his voice that makes the bile rise in Matt’s throat. _He_ put that bitterness there.

He nods. “I won’t let anyone hurt her. And Foggy - I’m going to do my job.”

He hopes Foggy knows what that means. He hopes Foggy knows Matt will come for him.

Foggy doesn’t say anything, though, and so Matt drags Hoffman over to his dropped gun, puts his foot on it, and slides it behind him towards Mrs. Cardenas. “Senora Cardenas, coge la arma.” She picks it up, trembling. “Damelo, por favor.”

He loosens his grip on Hoffman enough to hold out his hand, and Mrs. Cardenas places the gun in it. Letting go of Hoffman, Matt steps back quickly, keeping the gun trained on Hoffman and Mrs. Cardenas tucked behind him.

“Anything you do to him,” Matt says as Blake and Hoffman back towards the door with their prisoner. “I will bring it down on you tenfold. So keep that in mind.”

“We're just bringing him in for a little chat,” Hoffman says. “You want to tell the big guy a thing or two? Just look us up.”

They drag Foggy out of the apartment, then, and the door closes on their laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh!


	5. Chapter 5

“Explain to me again which part of this you thought was a good idea.” Matt’s heard Trish fed-up, impatient, and absolutely livid, but he’s not sure he’s ever heard her _this_ angry before. “The part where you were attacking innocent men in the street, the part where you escalated a dangerous situation until your client was kidnapped, or the part where you were implicating this company in your illegal vigilantism?”

“You forgot the part where he’s hot for his client,” Jessica pipes up.

“Don’t,” Trish snaps. “I’m not happy with any of you for letting him pull this shit. Especially you, Rand.” Jessica snorts and folds her arms defensively, but Danny hangs his head. Luke’s not giving off enough data for Matt to read him.

Matt tries not to wince as Claire pulls an inch-long piece of glass out of his arm and starts cleaning the wound with antiseptic. The adrenaline hasn’t bled out of his system yet, not by a long shot, but it’s receded enough that he’s started to feel how he’s hurting: a bruise swelling at his temple from the Russian asshole, his split lip, glass all through his forearms. His knee’s not quite right where Hoffman kicked him, either.

It doesn’t matter. Every minute they waste is another minute Foggy’s in danger.

“Trish, I am sorry. I truly am,” he says. “I should have let you know that I was investigating Foggy - Mr. Nelson - when he came in for the demo. If you want me to quit, I will.”

He sits forward and Claire tsks at him as his arm moves. They’re all in Trish’s office - he took Mrs. Cardenas straight there, since with Blake and Hoffman in on this, he’s not sure who at the precinct or the hospital he can trust. Besides Claire, of course. This isn’t the first time she’s unofficially patched someone up in the office.

Malcolm is sitting with Mrs. Cardenas now, hopefully helping her to be less terrified, while Trish reads Matt and the others the riot act. Matt is perfectly willing to be yelled at or even fired - it’s no less than he deserves - but not right now.

“None of this is Mr. Nelson’s fault, though,” he continues. “I can’t trust the cops, I don’t know who’s dirty. Please let me take the others to find him before it’s too late, and then you can yell at me or fire me or turn me over to the authorities or whatever you think is appropriate. But don’t make Mr. Nelson pay for it.”

He can hear Trish grinding her teeth. “...Do you know where they're keeping him?” she asks finally.

“No,” Matt admits, and Trish makes a frustrated sound at him. “But I can track him, if…” If he has enough time before Foggy’s captors kill him, but he can't bear to say that out loud.

“I can see what I can shake loose,” Luke volunteers. “Me and Jess. Between us we should have enough contacts out there to get a lead.”

“I can ask around…” Danny starts.

“I doubt they're hiding him at the yacht club,” Jessica says in a tone that means she's rolling her eyes.

“Right,” Danny says. “Because no one at the yacht club knows Leland Owlsley.”

“Fine,” Trish snaps, cutting off the argument before it begins - which is good, because the longer they wait the more Matt wants to claw his own skin off. “Everyone see what they can find out and keep your phones on. The minute you get a lead, call it in. No one storms the castle until all five of us are there, you got that, Murdock?”

“All _five_ of us?” Matt repeats just as Jessica says “ _You’re_ not going.”

“The hell I’m not,” Trish retorts, yanking her jacket off the peg on the back of her door and slipping it on. “We've seen the kind of judgment you four have without me. I'm not letting any of you get killed out there - _or_ our client.”

*

As luck would have it, it's Danny who turns up the lead.

Matt scours the Kitchen for three hours, trying to catch a rumor, a hint, the barest glimmer of Foggy’s voice or scent or heartbeat. He leaves the shakedowns to Luke and Jessica in the streets below - he doesn't trust himself to hold back right now.

But Danny calls it in - a word from the financial advisor to a financial advisor to a shell company to a shell company and so on and so on, but the upshot is a surprising bidding war on some condemned riverfront property, with Wilson Fisk as the owner of record. They assemble three blocks from the building in question, once Matt's sure there are no lookouts in earshot. Matt’s in dark clothes that he can move in and he’s got his billy clubs on him, but he hasn’t bothered with the full mystery man look. The Defenders have a right to rescue their client, or at least Trish can badger Hogarth into arguing something along those lines if this ends up in court. Matt doesn’t need the mask right now.

_Foggy_ doesn’t need the mask right now.

“How many?” Jessica asks, setting Trish down lightly before landing.

Matt’s already been all around the building, a crumbling warehouse, flitting by when the sentries weren’t looking and counting heartbeats. “Too many to know for sure,” he admits. “Thirty, forty maybe? But Foggy’s in there.” He’d know that heartbeat anywhere. It took everything he had not to burst in when he heard it, but getting himself killed by being reckless won’t do Foggy any good.

Trish cracks her knuckles. “Okay. How are we doing this?”

“I’m going straight for Foggy. You guys...make a distraction or something,” Matt says.

“And _you’re_ not going in,” Jessica tells Trish sternly.

Trish rolls her eyes, but it’s Luke who speaks. “Make a distraction or something? Hell of a plan, Murdock. Let me and Jess go in first, hit ‘em hard. While they’re scrambling, you do your sneaky ninja shit. Dan’ll cover your back. Okay?”

Danny nods. Jessica and Trish are silent, and Matt assumes they’re having some kind of conversation via facial expressions, because Trish finally makes a frustrated noise and says, “Fine. I’ll stay out here in case you need to send Mr. Nelson out and cover your retreat. But if Danny uses the Fist I’m calling the cops and coming in.”

“Fine, fine.” Matt doesn’t have _time_ to stand here and hash out these details. “Let’s _go_.”

“Find your center,” Danny suggests.

“I _will_ hit you.”

Luke claps them both on the shoulder. “Be careful, tiny friends.” He looks at Jess. “Hey, babe? I think that building needs a skylight, what do you think?”

“Definitely.” Jessica picks Luke up and flies off, and Matt leads Danny and Trish closer to the warehouse, down side streets with no guards. Halfway there they hear a crash - presumably Jessica dropping Luke through the roof. Gunfire follows, and screaming.

“What language is that?” Trish asks as they break into a run.

Matt concentrates. “English, Russian...and Japanese?”

“Sounds like a party,” Danny says.

Trish pulls ahead, but Matt grabs her before she rounds the corner. “Two guards still at the door. Don’t let them see you before we take them out. Stay safe.”

She nods. “Use the Fist if you need backup, Danny. Murdock, you better haul that perky tush of yours out of there in one piece so that I can keep being mad at you.”

“Got it, boss.” Matt lets her go and he and Danny charge around the corner and across the street towards the warehouse. The guards are distracted by the chaos inside, and don’t notice Matt and Danny until they’re nearly on top of them. Matt sends his reeling with a punch, then knocks him out with a roundhouse kick to the head. Danny drops his with a single uppercut.

“I guess some guys need two hits to take out cheap muscle for hire.”

“You know what, Rand…”

Inside the warehouse is sheer chaos, and it takes a few seconds for Matt’s senses to sort it out into something he can process. Luke is tossing mooks around the room like they weigh nothing at all; Matt’s pretty sure he smells Blake’s rancid cologne as he goes hurtling by. Matt’s old friend, Anatoly’s Asshole Brother, shouts something unpleasant-sounding at Jessica until she clocks him in the head. There’s gunfire everywhere, but luckily it’s mostly targeted at Luke, who’s shrugging it off.

“Stop them, you idiots!” someone familiar yells. “There’s only two of them!” Whoever it is charges past Matt and Danny, bumping into Matt in his haste - and it’s Leland Owlsley, clutching something that smells like a briefcase in his arms. “Out of my way!” he demands without a flicker of recognition, and bolts out the door. Danny makes a grab for him, but Matt shakes his head.

“He’s harmless,” he says. “We need to find Foggy.”

He stops and concentrates, searching out Foggy’s heartbeat in the midst of the chaos. He’s dimly aware of Danny guarding him, punching out a couple of Fisk’s men who get too close, but he doesn’t focus on it. Danny won’t let anything through.

And there - there it is, the rapid, thready beat of Foggy’s frightened heart, across the main loading floor where the fight is raging and down a hallway stretching west, towards the river. “That way,” Matt says, pointing, and breaks into a run, Danny close at his heels.

No one seems to notice them running through the melee, especially after Jessica starts swinging part of an abandoned crane around. They’re almost at the hallway entrance when Matt hears a strange sharp whistling in the air, Danny yelling, “Matt, look out!” and then Matt _screams_ as a blade tears through his lower back.

He stumbles and nearly falls, turning it into a crouch as he wheels to face this opponent. It’s a man, about his height and weight, his heart a steady metronome, as if he’s relaxing in an armchair instead of fighting a stranger in a warehouse with guns going off.

The other man takes a few steps to the side, reeling in his weapon as he does. From the sound, it’s a hooked blade on the end of a long chain - a blade that now reeks of Matt’s blood. He moves like Danny - like Stick did, sometimes. _Ninja_ , Matt thinks, or something very like it.

“You are with the others,” the ninja says. “But they are just a distraction, I think. I am not like the Russians or the Americans, easily tricked by loud noises. You will go no further.”

Matt straightens up, gets his arms up in a defensive position, but Danny steps in front of him. “I recognize that form. You were trained by Lei Kung the Thunderer.”

The ninja inclines his head. “For a time.” The chain jingles as the blade swings. “There are not many who know the name of the Thunderer. You must be the Immortal Iron Fist.”

“The what?” Matt whispers.

“Don’t worry about it,” Danny whispers back.

The ninja ignores this back and forth, and bows. “It will be an honor to slay you, Iron Fist. Perhaps I shall teach you what true immortality is.”

“Super creepy, dude,” Danny says, but he bows in turn anyway. “Matt, go!”

“But - ”

The blade whistles through the air again and Danny leaps out of the way. “I got it, man, go save your boy!”

Matt goes.

He tries to keep the fight on his radar as he heads down the hall, but it’s moving too fast for him to keep track of - the whirling blade, Danny leaping and spinning just out of reach. Besides, the hallway’s not empty. Matt runs into three guards on his way. Normally they’d be easy to put down, but he’s hurting - he can feel blood dripping hot down his back, and his leg still isn’t as reliable as he’d like. He’s tired, too.

But Foggy’s heart is getting closer.

Matt finds him in a room at the end of the hall. The door’s locked and Matt bruises his shoulder knocking it down, but it doesn’t matter, because Foggy’s there, Foggy’s _there_ and he’s alive and only bleeding a little, he smells like pain and fear but Matt can fix that, Matt can _save him_.

“ _Foggy_ ,” he says, rushing forward, and Foggy says something - too muffled to make out, he’s tied to a chair and he must be gagged, too - and Matt’s reaching for the gag, all his focus on Foggy, when there’s a step and a _crack_ and Matt screams again as a bullet tears through his shoulder.

“Have I gotten your attention, Mr. Matt?”

Matt turns, right arm dangling. Blood’s running down it but the bullet seems to have gone through clean; it hurts to move but it’s not out of commission, not yet.

Wesley’s hand on the gun doesn’t shake, though his heartbeat is fast. “Make no mistake: I have excellent aim. I didn’t shoot you in the head because frankly, you’ve pissed my employer off, and I think he’d prefer to kill you himself. Perhaps after we’ve learned exactly how much confidential information Mr. Nelson here has squirreled away. You’ve stuck with him so loyally, I’m sure you’ll want to be with him at the end.”

Matt slides a billy club out of its holster. It’s awkward with his left hand, but he manages.

Wesley huffs an amused sound. “Commendable, really, very commendable. When I told Mr. Nelson the Defenders were the best in personal security, I had no idea you’d go this far.” The click of the gun’s hammer. “Drop it.”

Matt lets the billy club fly. It hits Wesley in the head. He crumples to the ground.

“I’ll have them put your endorsement in the brochures,” Matt says, and turns back to Foggy. As quickly as he can with his arm half-deadened and one glove slick with blood, he loosens the gag enough to pull it out of Foggy’s mouth. “Foggy, are you okay?”

“Well, I wasn’t just shot, so I’m doing better than you are. They didn’t have a lot of time to start questioning me. Pretty sure my arm is broken, though,” Foggy says. “Mrs. Cardenas?”

“She’s safe. She’s with Malcolm and - and a nurse friend. She’s okay.”

“Well, that’s something,” and oh, there’s banked anger in Foggy’s voice. Matt deserves it, he knows he does. Maybe it’ll burn the guilt out of him.

“Foggy, I never meant for anything like this to happen...” he starts as he frees Foggy’s wrists - carefully, carefully, if Foggy’s arm is broken he doesn’t want to make it worse.

“Which part?” Foggy asks. “Working as Fisk’s hired thug or making me think you actually cared about me?”

Matt feels his jaw drop. “I - I didn’t - I wasn’t working for Fisk. I _never_ worked for Fisk!”

“You attacked me!” Foggy says, even as Matt frees his ankles. “That was you the first night, right? Who’d you get the time you ‘saved’ me? That guy you did the flippy little demo with? Great trick, by the way. I really thought - fuck. It doesn’t matter. Kidnap me, rescue me, whatever. I can’t even tell anymore.”

“Foggy…” Matt says, but then he hears it. A heart like a bass drum, pounding fast and coming closer. “Fisk. He’s coming. Stay back.”

“What are you - ” Foggy starts to say, but Matt’s already rising, tucking Foggy behind him as Fisk bursts into the room. It hurts to stand, the wound at his back gaping open as he moves.

“Wesley!” Fisk says, looking towards Wesley’s heaped form on the floor.

“He’s alive,” Matt says. “Though he may wish he wasn’t when he’s serving out his life sentence for helping you.”

“Murdock,” Fisk says. “You did this.”

“Just defending my client,” Matt says. No need for Fisk to know he’s the man in the mask if he hasn’t put it together already.

Rage rolls off of Fisk in a wave. “I should have send more men after you when the Russians failed. I should have killed you both!”

Matt shrugs his uninjured shoulder. “Probably. Now did _you_ want to call the police to arrest you for kidnapping and assault, or should I?”

Fisk lets out a bestial roar and charges him. Normally Matt would sidestep, use his greater speed and agility to let Fisk tire himself out with wild swings, but he can’t do that here. Foggy could get hurt. He has to stay in front of Foggy.

Instead, he meets the charge head on, ducking under Fisk’s blow and punching him in the ribs with his good arm. It’s like hitting a sack of wet cement. Fisk catches him on the backswing, backhanding Matt across the face and sending him sprawling.

“Matt!” Foggy cries.

Matt scrambles to his feet. Stupid as it is, he’s buoyed by Foggy’s voice. Foggy can’t _totally_ hate him, if he’s worried.

“Stand down,” he says, and kicks Fisk in the side. Fisk shouts in pain and slams a fist into his head. Matt’s ears ring as he staggers. “Stand _down_ ,” he says stubbornly, and kicks again.

It’s a mistake - it’s the bad leg and he’s slow. Fisk evades, grabs his injured shoulder in one huge paw and, while Matt’s trying not to howl in pain, hits him in the face, twice, three times, Matt loses count. Fisk throws him and he falls.

“ _No_ ,” Foggy says. Matt pushes himself to his feet.

“I’ll kill you!” Fisk roars. Lucky for Matt. His senses are rattled but he know where that roar is.

He ducks. Spins. Takes a blow to the ribs. Something cracks. He gets his other billy club free, hits Fisk across the head. Fisk yells and slams him to the ground again.

No. Up. Up. Foggy needs him. He stands. He’s bleeding. He can’t feel his right arm; tries to swing it anyway. Fisk grunts so it must have connected.

Billy club. He’s still got it in his other fist. Swings it, hits - no, Fisk has his wrist, no, that’s - Matt cries out as his fingers break. There’s blood in his mouth. He can’t stop.

He’s down again. He’s - did Fisk hit him again? He’s on the floor. He can’t - where’s Foggy’s heartbeat, he’s got to get between Fisk and Foggy’s heartbeat. He won’t let anything hurt Foggy. Never again.

“You’re dead, Murdock!” Fisk says as Matt pushes himself back up. “Lie down, you stupid son of a bitch! You’re _dead!_ ”

“No,” Foggy says, and the gun fires again.

Fisk roars, a wounded animal, and turns on Foggy. No, no, _nonono_ Matt _leaps_ on him, billy club across his throat cutting off his air, Fisk is thrashing and there’s blood pouring from his side and Matt can’t feel his arm or his leg and his mouth is full of blood but he can’t let up, can’t - can’t - 

Fisk’s heartbeat slows, slows, slows.

He drops.

Matt tilts his head towards Foggy. “Guess that’s one I owe you now,” he says, and the world goes sideways.

*

The last time Matt woke up in the hospital, he’d just been blinded and his father was by his bedside. Jessica drinks the same bottom-shelf scotch Jack Murdock did, so it’s disorienting to say the least to wake to that smell while on a hard mattress under scratchy linens.

But no, his senses work it out after a minute - it’s Jessica curled in a chair half-asleep, draped in a too-big jacket that smells like Luke. She doesn’t stir, which gives Matt a minute to work back the tears threatening to fall.

“Jess?” he says when he thinks he can trust his voice. It’s scratchy, but that’s okay. Matt doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep.

Jessica sits up. “Hey, stupid. Welcome back.”

“Foggy?”

“He’s fine.” Jessica stands up and picks up a cup of water with a straw, feeds him little sips through it. He’s grateful it’s her. It’s easier to be helpless in front of Jessica, who he knows will literally never ask him how he feels about...well, anything. “He’s in a room down the hall, actually, he’s got a broken arm and they’re keeping him for observation, but he’s fine.”

“Thanks.” Matt sinks back against the pillows and catalogs the extent of the damage. Both arms and one leg feel pretty well immobilized, but he can wiggle all his toes and most of his fingers, so he’s not too worried. His back hurts, his face feels pretty swollen, and breathing in too deeply makes him gasp in pain, but it could be worse. Foggy’s okay. “How long?”

“About a day. We’ve been watching you in shifts. The cops got Fisk and that weasely suit who works for him and like thirty others, but you never know.” There’s a fizzy sound as she pops a soda. “Danny was fighting this crazy ninja guy and we don’t know what happened to him. The ninja, I mean.”

“Danny’s okay, though?”

“Everyone’s okay but your stupid ass,” Jessica assures him. “Our delicate little pretty-boy. Oh, and Trish got to punch out Leland Owlsley as he fled the scene with a briefcase full of incriminating evidence, so she’s in a good mood and you probably won’t even be fired. Everything’s coming up Murdock!”

“Sure.” Matt tries to smile, but it hurts his lip. Foggy will most likely never speak to him again, and he’ll _have_ to quit the Defenders if Trish won’t fire him, but. But.

The only one who was badly hurt was Matt. They even brought Fisk down.

It’s the best he has any right to hope for.

*

Sure enough, the others do guard him in shifts, which is nice of them, though Matt’s asleep for most of the next twenty-four hours so he’s not great company. Luke and Jessica are blessedly silent; Danny chatters happily without needing any real input from Matt, which is just as good. Malcolm, Matt’s savior, brings Matt some of his extra-soft clothes to provide some respite from the awful hospital sheets.

Trish stops by the day after, when Matt's more alert, and places a small vase of lilies-of-the-valley on his nightstand. “To mask the smells,” she explains. “I know it's a little cloying for you, but I figure it's better than bedpans. How are you doing on sounds?”

“Fine,” Matt says. He doesn't tell her he's been focusing on Foggy's heartbeat down the hall to block out the rest of the noise of the hospital.

She brushes a lock of hair off his forehead. “Oh, look at you. You better heal up, Matt, those cheekbones of yours pull in like thirty percent of our clientele.”

Matt sighs. “It's okay, Trish. I quit. You don't have to feel bad about firing me. You shouldn't, anyway, but still. I quit.”

“Nope.”

“Trish…”

“He's not suing,” Trish says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “He didn't ask me to fire you. Not that I would have just because he wanted me to, you know how stubborn I am.”

Matt swallows and nods. He's not sure what it means, that Foggy's not suing. Foggy _should_ sue. Matt was meant to keep him safe and instead he put him in danger.

“You know, it's funny,” Trish goes on. “You'd think, after so many encounters with him, that Mr. Nelson would have some idea of who the man in the mask is. But if he does, he didn't mention it in his statement to the police.”

Matt's been too tired and heartsick to consider why he's not currently handcuffed to his hospital bed, but...oh. _Oh._ Foggy covered for him. Foggy kept his secret.

Why would he do that?

“According to all official and public accounts, then, Mr. Nelson was saved from attacks on his person on three different occasions by his personal Defenders bodyguard,” Trish says. “Moreover, when he was kidnapped, after leaving his home unaccompanied against the advice of his bodyguard, and with the official forces compromised by parties currently awaiting indictment, his bodyguard mustered all available Defenders agents to mount a daring rescue, at great personal danger and despite sustaining significant injuries.” She pats Matt’s thigh through the blanket and drops the formal tone. “Heck of a story, Matt. It’ll play great with future clients. Not so great if the hero of the hour gets fired at the end, though.”

“I endangered my client,” Matt says. “I acted illegally and endangered my client, and my colleagues, and the reputation of the Defenders...I, I compromised the integrity of - ”

“Oh, you’re on probation,” Trish says, cutting him off. “You’re on _such_ probation, you have no idea. No one-on-ones for the next six months. All the shitty jobs. And we will be having a serious discussion about what you’re doing in that mask once you’re back on your feet, because stopping purse-snatchers is one thing, but this…” She shakes her head. “Table that. Rest up for now.”

“But I…”

“Hush.” Trish stands up. “I’m only being nice because you look like you fell down every flight of stairs in New York. I’m still mad at you, don’t worry. But I’m not going to cut you loose just because you were tried to do the right thing and it got out of hand.” She kisses his forehead and politely ignores his tears. “You’re family, Murdock. This is how it works.”

*

Despite Foggy’s overwhelming graciousness in not having Matt arrested or fired, Matt wasn’t actually expecting Foggy to come see him.

Luke’s sitting with him, watching the football game on TV and occasionally providing additional narration when the commentators haven’t made the action clear enough, when Matt hears Foggy’s heartbeat drawing closer. He figures Foggy’s just going for a walk, or maybe being discharged - but then Foggy’s in his doorway, knocking on the frame. “Can I come in?”

There’s a frozen, awkward pause. Luke stands up. “I’m, uh, gonna go get some coffee. I’ll be...I’ll just...yeah.”

Luke practically flees the room, and Foggy walks in. He doesn’t sit. He’s holding his arm close to his body, and Matt can smell plaster and fiberglass - a cast. “How’s...” Matt’s voice comes out a whisper. He swallows and tries again. “How’s the arm?”

“I’ll live,” Foggy says. He smells like painkillers and chocolate pudding and the faint reek of being stuck in a hospital for two days with no proper shower. Matt still wants to bask in it.

“Thank you,” he says. “You probably saved my life.”

Foggy gives a short nod. “You definitely saved mine. I’m just glad I didn’t kill him. I was aiming to wound, but...first time holding a gun. And last, hopefully.”

“And. And thank you for not...for not telling the police that I…” Matt trails off. Foggy’s silent, and Matt sighs. Foggy’s not going to save him from this one. “That I’m the man in the mask.”

Foggy’s heart speeds up a little, but his voice, when he speaks, is still very calm. “You said you never worked for Fisk, and I believe you. So what _were_ you doing?”

“I was trying to stop him,” Matt says. “Putting on the mask...it was only about stopping street crime, at first, because I could _hear_ people being hurt, and I knew I could stop it. But everything seemed to lead back to him, and you - you seemed like the weak link. You were his lawyer, you _had_ to know something incriminating, and if I just leaned on you…” He hates himself more with every word. “Anyway, that was - that was why. The first night.”

“How’d you swing the Defenders thing?”

“Coincidence,” Matt says. “I swear, I had no idea you’d go looking for a bodyguard, much less with us. I didn’t even realize the demo was for you until you were already in the office. And then...well, then I asked the others to throw it, because I wanted you.” He feels his face heat up. “As a client. So that I could...if you trusted me, I could find out what you knew about Fisk, and. Well.”

“Put me in jail right alongside him,” Foggy finishes.

“I didn’t know you, then,” Matt says, a little pathetically. “I didn’t know yet that you weren’t involved. That you would _never_ be involved.”

“And you still didn’t know that by the time I started talking about letting you go, huh?” Foggy asks. “So you got your buddy to dress up as you and send me running straight back to your arms. That’s...Jesus Christ, Matt. That’s dedication, I guess.”

“I. I wasn’t sure. I had to be _sure_ ,” Matt says, even though he doesn’t even know if that’s a lie anymore. Was he still trying to get information on Fisk by that point? Or did he just not want Foggy to send him away?

Foggy lets out a long, slow breath through his nose. “But the rest were real, right? The rest were Fisk.”

“The rest were Fisk,” Matt agrees. “Well, I don’t know who poisoned the benefit. I don’t think that was him, I don’t think he would have risked Ms. Marianna that way. But the Russians, and those two detectives who went after Mrs. Cardenas...that was Fisk.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says, which gives Matt nothing. He walks to the window, looks out, walks back. Pacing. Thinking.

Matt waits. He’s not brave enough to ask Foggy to cut to the chase. If he does, Foggy will leave, and even Foggy standing here hating him is better than that.

“So here’s my question,” Foggy says finally, and Matt tries not to cringe visibly, because he’s heard Foggy in court, he _knows_ that tone. That’s Franklin Nelson cross-examining a hostile witness. “Was all the flirting because you were trying to get me to trust you, or were you just doing it because you thought I was a crime-abetting scumbag who deserved to be made into a laughingstock?”

Matt wants to say it was neither, but he owes Foggy the truth. “At first I was trying to get you to let your guard down around me,” he says. “And then I just…” _Fell for you._ “...liked you. It was a gradual thing, I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started to be real. But it _was_ real by the end, Foggy, I swear.”

Foggy’s heart is beating like a wild thing, but he just stands there for a long moment. “Well,” he says finally, “that doesn’t do either of us a lot of good now, does it?”

Matt tells himself not to be disappointed. He doesn’t have the right. “I guess not.”

“Goodbye, Matt,” Foggy says, and turns to go.

Matt licks his lips. “You were the best thing.”

Foggy stops. “What?”

“You asked me, once. We were talking about my senses, and you asked, you asked if the subway was the worst thing I could hear, and I said no, crying was the worst.” Matt’s babbling. He can’t stop. He doesn’t expect this to make Foggy stay, but - but he wants him to know. “And then you asked me what the best thing was, and I didn’t have an answer. It was you, Foggy. You were the best sound in the city.”

Foggy pauses, hand on the doorway. He still hasn’t turned around to face Matt. “See, the thing is, Matt, I don’t have super hearing,” he says. “I don’t know what it sounds like when you’re telling the truth.”

He walks out.

Matt tells himself not to cry, not again. He doesn’t have the right to that, either.

*

Matt can’t quite bring himself to stop listening for Foggy’s heartbeat, which is how he knows that Foggy checks out of the hospital the next day. Not, however, before Karen comes to see him - and brings a reporter named Ben Urich to Matt’s room, telling him in a tone of spiteful glee that Matt will be _happy_ to answer as many questions as Ben has about the fall of Wilson Fisk, for as long as Ben wants. Karen may not know all of what happened, but she knows enough to be pissed at Matt, clearly.

Matt’s got three more days in the hospital after Foggy leaves. He has a sneaking suspicion Claire may have pulled some strings to get him a longer stay than was strictly necessary, just because she can actually _make_ him stay down for once. The extra days of enforced bed rest probably don’t do his body any harm, to be fair, but stuck in the hospital like this he’s got nothing to do but think over his actions of the past few weeks, and they don’t really bear much contemplation.

Meditation’s difficult. He gives up without Foggy’s breathing nearby to match his own to.

Claire visits, too, between shifts. The first time, she gives him an _extremely graphic_ rundown of just how much damage he’ll do if he doesn’t let this particular round of injuries heal properly, before smoothing down his hair and telling him she’s glad he’s okay. The other times, she just sits with him. It’s nice. Matt’s not sure how to handle nice right now, but he doesn’t tell her to go away, either.

Finally he’s released, with dire warnings and a strict physical therapy regimen from Claire and his doctors. Matt's only too glad to leave - the doctors keep calling him a hero, and he knows all too well how far he is from that. Luke helps him home, where someone - probably Malcolm - has stocked the fridge and put fresh sheets on the bed.

It still feels cold and empty by himself. Matt wonders how long it'll take him to get used to it again.

A week goes by. Two weeks. A month. Matt does his physical therapy, slowly regaining a full range of motion as he heals. He goes back to the office - he's not up for taking on clients yet even if he _weren't_ on probation, but he can consult. He meditates with Danny. Agents come in and out of assignments. Trish fields a call from Sam Wilson, an _actual Avenger_ , about a relevant case. Jessica takes a brief job guarding some pop star from her ex-boyfriend and comes back with lots of stories about how annoying famous people are.

Life goes back to normal. It's good. It tells Matt that eventually he will, too.

It just might take a while.

He's at Fogwell's, working through his PT regimen on his healing shoulder, when the approaching sound of a familiar heartbeat startles him so badly that he misses the bag entirely.

“Whoa,” Foggy says as Matt stumbles and catches himself. “Sorry. Didn't meant to throw you off like that.” He’s wearing something cottony and soft-sounding. His arm is still in a sling and he smells like home.

“What are you doing here?” Matt blurts out, then catches himself. “I mean. Sorry. Hello. I, um...how did you…?” He waves a wrapped hand at the gym in general bewilderment.

“Oh, uh.” Foggy sounds a little embarrassed too. “I called the office and Malcolm told me where I could find you. After I promised not to yell at you.”

Matt can’t decide if he’s thrilled or furious with Malcolm. He feels sweaty and red-faced and off-balance...but Foggy’s _here_. “You can, if you want. Yell at me, I mean.”

“I keep my promises,” Foggy says. It’s a little too sharp; Foggy must think so too, from the way he sucks in air afterwards. “Sorry. That was...unnecessary.”

“It’s okay,” Matt says. “If you’re mad at me. You’ve already been more generous than I deserve.”

“Oh, for the love of - would you stop playing the tragic martyr for five seconds?” Foggy says, throwing his good hand up in the air. “I didn’t come here for that. And if you apologize for apologizing too much I will kick you in the shins, I swear to God.”

Matt’s obediently silent. Foggy sighs. “Okay, so. Why am I here. Like I said, it’s not to yell at you. Or to...to tell you I’m suing, or making Ms. Walker fire you, or anything like that. Which she told me in no uncertain terms she wouldn’t do, by the way. I didn’t ask her to, but - she’s good people.” He huffs a little laugh. “You got a better boss than I did.”

Matt tries a tentative smile. “Yeah? Just wait until I take down _her_ criminal empire.”

Foggy laughs again, a real one this time, and Matt relaxes fractionally. He still doesn’t know why Foggy’s here, but he made Foggy _laugh_. That has to be a good sign.

“So,” Foggy says. “I've been doing a lot of thinking. About the things you told me, and the things you did for me, and...okay, so by my count you attacked me, or had someone else do it, twice.” Matt winces. “But you also saved my life three times, and I’ve gotta think that a real save counts for more than a staged attack.”

“You saved my life, too,” Matt points out. “And I lied to you.”

“And I lied right back. I knew Fisk was up to something sketchy, even if I wouldn’t admit it.”

“Attorney-client privilege,” Matt argues. “You were doing your job. Besides, your life wouldn’t have needed saving in the first place if it hadn’t been for me…”

“I was on retainer for a criminal mastermind, Matt, that was never going to end well,” Foggy says. “I’m trying to give you a pass here, would you just take it?” Matt falls silent, even though he doesn’t agree. “Don’t make that face at me just because I’m not being mean enough to you.”

Matt picks at the wrap on his left hand. “So...you came here to tell me that? That we’re even?”

“No. I mean, not just…” Foggy sighs. “Look, I don’t really care about the math, okay? I don’t know how you quantify the past couple months. I don’t know how to look at you when I can see the scar on your shoulder from the bullet _you took for me_ , and decide that you have or have not earned enough forgiveness points or whatever. I don’t...I…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m here because I miss you.”

Matt’s heart lurches. “You do?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Foggy says. “And I’ve got a _lot_ of extra free time to think these days. And you...you said it was real.”

“It was,” Matt says, quickly, too frantically. “It is. For me, it is.” His heart is thundering in his ears, but not loud enough to drown out Foggy’s.

“Say it,” Foggy says.

Matt swallows. He feels flushed and a little dizzy. “I want to be with you. I think you’re wonderful. I know I don’t deserve it, but I’d do anything for another chance.”

“...Wow,” Foggy says, very soft. “That’s...that’s some good saying it. You should’ve gone to law school with me, you would’ve killed it in public speaking.”

“I meant it,” Matt says.

“Yeah,” Foggy says. “I think you did. Heads up, I’m gonna kiss you now, okay?”

“Okay,” Matt says, a little too eagerly, but it doesn’t matter because Foggy’s already taken the four or five steps to him and then Foggy’s kissing him and Matt couldn’t care about anything else in the world right now. He has his hands cupping Foggy’s face before he can stop himself, but Foggy doesn’t seem to mind - just kisses Matt like he means it until they’re both grinning too hard to keep it up.

Matt tips his forehead against Foggy’s and traces the edges of his face with his thumbs - the smile lines around his eyes, the scratch of sideburns, the curve of his jaw. “So I take it the feeling’s mutual?” he asks.

Foggy huffs, amused. “Quit fishing. I’ve been hot for you since day one and you know it.”

“Oh,” Matt says, suddenly bashful.

“Annnd I like your inner beauty too, don’t worry,” Foggy says, and Matt swallows past a lump in his throat. He’s a mess inside, all wrath and pride and old resentments, but Foggy - Foggy’s not lying. He thinks Matt’s beautiful.

Matt’s too choked to come up with a proper response, so he kisses Foggy instead. Foggy doesn’t seem to mind.

“We should take it slow,” Foggy says when they break apart several breathless minutes later.

“Okay,” Matt says.

“Make sure there’s something there when we’re not - you know. Having heightened emotional responses to dangerous circumstances or whatever.”

“Yes.”

“Go on dates and hold hands and things. Like normal people.”

“Sounds good.”

“Are you just going to say okay to everything I suggest from now on?” Foggy asks, laughing.

Matt grins. “Probably.”

Foggy’s good hand settles on his hip. “Kiss me,” he says, and Matt’s grin widens.

“Okay.”

*

“Taking it slow” lasts the whole of a single date. Matt is good. He takes Foggy to a nice restaurant in the gentrified part of Hell’s Kitchen, and buys him the wine Trish recommended, and holds his hand as he walks him home and while he kisses him, sweet and chaste, outside his front door.

The second date is on a Friday, to celebrate Foggy’s cast coming off. The doorman recognizes Matt and lets him up to meet Foggy at his apartment door instead of in the lobby.

They don’t make it back out of the apartment until Monday morning.

“What are you doing?” Foggy laughs at some point on Sunday afternoon. Matt’s straddling him, running his hands over Foggy’s upper body, paths he’s traced again and again this weekend but still isn’t tired of.

“Well, I spent so long guarding it,” Matt says. “I want to make sure I did a good job.”

Foggy snorts. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re gorgeous,” Matt retorts, and leans down to kiss Foggy’s smile.

Foggy hums, pleased, against Matt’s mouth. “We should put on pants,” he says when Matt pulls back, though the hand running up and down Matt’s spine belies Foggy’s virtuous words. “Go outside. Rejoin the world.”

“Definitely,” Matt says, and kisses Foggy’s neck.

“You’re just humoring me.”

“No, no. Let’s go outside. We’ll go to the movies.”

“I’m not making out with you in the back of a movie theater, Murdock.”

“The park, then.”

“ _Or_ behind some bushes like a creep.”

“Then I guess we'll have to stay here,” Matt concludes triumphantly.

Foggy laughs. “I'm rolling my eyes at you.”

“So you’re saying you’re not interested?” Matt asks, rolling his hips languidly against Foggy’s. “Because I gotta tell you, it kind of feels like you are.”

“This smugness is very unattractive, you know,” Foggy says, walking a hand up Matt’s thigh.

“Really?”

“No,” Foggy says, and hooks his other arm around Matt’s neck to draw him down into another kiss, long and urgent. By the time they break apart, Matt’s breathless, and Foggy’s hips are rocking up, little movements that Matt wants to feel a whole lot more of right _now_.

He stretches past Foggy to snag the lube and a condom off the nightstand, where they haven’t bothered to put them away. “Can I…?” he asks, hesitating with his hands over Foggy’s dick, and Foggy nods.

“Please,” he says. His voice is just starting to have that shaky, needy edge Matt’s grown to love over the past two days, and it makes Matt eager and clumsy with his hands as he tears the little packet open and rolls the condom down Foggy’s length.

Foggy gives a little sigh as he opens the lube and hands it to Matt, who shifts up onto his knees to reach back. He’s still stretched from earlier, and two slick fingers sink in easily; three’s a pleasant burn. “I’m good.”

“Billy, don’t be a hero,” Foggy warns.

“I swear,” Matt assures him.

“You don’t have to rush.” From the warmth in Foggy’s voice, Matt’s sure he’s smiling. “I’m not going anywhere.” Matt _has_ to kiss him at that; it’s the only way to shake the tight feeling out of his chest so that he can breathe again.

He’s generous with the lube when he sits back up because he knows Foggy will want him to be, and these sheets are in desperate need of a wash by now anyway. He hands off the lube to Foggy, who stretches up to toss it back onto the nightstand, and then Matt shifts up, forward, and he’s guiding Foggy into him and sinking down and yes, _yes_ , the full hot feeling and the way Foggy’s heart pounds inside him is something he already knows he’ll never tire of.

“Fuck,” Foggy says as Matt bottoms out, his hands skating up over Matt’s abs.

“Yeah,” Matt agrees.

He shifts up and resettles - not a full thrust, but enough to make his breath hitch audibly, and Foggy pets at his stomach. “Hey, easy, don’t…”

“I’m okay,” Matt insists. He might have rushed it a little - he was impatient and Foggy’s wonderfully, delightfully big - but he likes it, the stretch and the pressure, the fullness, the burn he knows he’ll be feeling in his thighs in a minute. He likes feeling _Foggy_ , visceral and unmistakable. He runs his hands over Foggy’s belly, his hips, and pushes himself up so that he can sink back down properly.

“God, _Matt_ ,” Foggy groans, hips twitching up, and Matt grins.

“Yeah? You good?” he asks, rocking up and back down again, deeper this time, setting up a slow and easy rhythm.

Foggy’s hands are moving again, palming Matt’s sides, stroking his thighs. Matt loves the way they feel, how Foggy’s always gentle - at least, until Matt asks him not to be. “ _So_ good,” Foggy assures him. “Fuck, Matt, you look so gorgeous like this.” Matt knows he shouldn’t preen, but he can’t help it. His reaction must be visible, because Foggy laughs. “Yes, yes, you’re very pretty, I could gaze at you forever and not get bored, you know all this already.”

“Mmm,” Matt sighs as he sinks down again. “You have been...rather poetic this weekend.” It’s the “forever” that’s catching on his heart, but he tries not to read too much into it. He knows how _he_ feels, but Foggy’s given to playful hyperbole. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

Still, Foggy’s heart is steady.

“You’re my sexy muse,” Foggy says, rocking up to meet him. “At least - _hh_ \- until you make me forget how to talk entirely.”

Matt grins. “Don’t worry, I like that part too.” He moves his hips a little harder and tips his head back as he finds the right angle. “Fuck...Foggy, yeah, just like that.”

Foggy laughs again, more breathless this time. “You’re...you’re the one doing all the work,” he points out, even though his hips are rolling up steadily and his hands are helping to guide Matt down.

Matt shakes his head. “No,” he says, “it’s you, _fuck_ , Foggy, you feel so good…” He trails off, moving faster, chasing the pleasure building low in his belly. His thighs are starting to ache but he _loves_ it, loves how it keeps his senses pinned here, in the moment, with Foggy.

“Yeah,” Foggy groans, low. “God, Matt, don’t stop.” One of his hands finds its way to Matt’s dick and normally Matt would stop him, would try to draw this out, but it feels too good, and besides, he doesn’t have to ration this feeling. Foggy’s not going anywhere. Foggy keeps his promises.

“ _Foggy_ ,” he sobs, riding Foggy faster, harder still, feeling Foggy match the rhythm of Matt’s hips with his hand, his other hand digging into the meat of Matt’s ass. Foggy’s heart is thunder in Matt’s ears and the air is thick with the smell of sweat and sex and it’s perfect, right here, it’s everything Matt didn’t realize he wanted from the moment he first crossed Foggy’s threshold. “ _Please_.”

“I got you, baby, come on…” Foggy coaxes. Matt grinds _down_ , breathless, mouth hanging open as Foggy’s hips snap up. “Matt…” and Foggy’s hand tightens, his heartbeat rumbles up Matt’s spine and Matt’s gone, coming with a hoarse shout.

He sinks forward as he comes down, curling in to rest his forehead on Foggy’s collarbone. Foggy’s hips still as he kisses Matt’s hair and strokes his clean hand down Matt’s sweaty spine. “Hey, baby.”

Matt tucks his face into the curve of Foggy’s neck and breathes him in. They’re both splattered with come and in about two minutes it’ll be disgusting, but right now Matt just feels glorious. And Foggy’s still hard inside him.

Matt clenches and smiles when Foggy gasps. “Go ahead,” he says, patting Foggy’s side aimlessly. “Finish.”

“You sure?”

Matt clenches again and Foggy lets out a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh. “Okay, okay, I get it,” he says, and starts rocking up into Matt again, both hands coming down to grab Matt’s ass. Matt shudders, nerve endings overstimulated and jangly, but it’s a good kind of too much.

“Yeah, come on,” he mumbles, and kisses Foggy’s neck. “Come on, do it.”

“So good, Matt, so fucking gorgeous…” Foggy sounds breathless and scattered. Matt loves it. Matt loves _him_ , but it’s too soon to say it, so Matt just pushes his face into Foggy’s thrumming pulse and lets Foggy take him.

“Come on, Foggy,” he pleads, making it sweet. “Come on, I want to feel you…” and Foggy muffles his cry in Matt’s hair as he comes.

His arms slide up to wrap around Matt’s waist and Matt just stays there for a long moment, wrapped in the feel and scent of Foggy, until the stickiness and awkward position grow unbearable, and he has to shift up and off. “Oof,” Foggy says, and reaches up for the tissues, which he hands to Matt before removing the condom and tying it off.

“This isn’t really going to do the job,” Matt says, wiping first himself, then Foggy, as clean as he can while being guided mostly by smell.

Foggy tosses the garbage in the wastebasket near the bed and lets the tissue box fall to the floor, then pulls Matt back in to curl up against his chest. “You’re the one who wanted to stay in our filthy den of iniquity here instead of rejoining the human race.”

“I’m _pretty_ sure you enjoyed that more than going to the movies,” Matt retorts, and kisses Foggy’s chest. Yeah, they’re both pretty gross. Matt’s a little shamefully into it. “Besides, we can always take a shower.”

“You just want another underwater blowjob.”

“I am not above multitasking,” Matt says airily, and Foggy laughs and kisses the top of his head.

“You know, eventually we will have to put on pants and go to work,” Foggy points out.

“I’m on probation and you’re not on retainer anymore.”

“I have other clients, Matt.” Foggy drums his fingers on Matt’s shoulder. “And, uh...Ms. Walker _may_ have reached out to me about representing the Defenders. It seems Ms. Jones played a little rough on her last assignment and apparently your current legal counsel is tired of handling those cases.”

Matt tips his face up towards Foggy’s. “Wait, really? You’re going to work for us?”

“It seems likely, yeah. Is that too weird?”

“What? No, it’s great!” Matt’s pretty sure his smile is goofy right now, especially upside down, but doesn’t care. “You need a client who doesn’t pay you in pie, and we need New York’s most brilliant attorney. Jessica pisses off a _lot_ of people.”

“You don’t have to flatter me to get into my pants, Matthew, we _just_ had sex,” Foggy says, but he’s laughing. “Anyway, yes, I like non-pie-paying clients. And I’ll get to see you more.” His voice goes almost shy on that last bit, and Matt just _has_ to lean up and kiss him. He’d walk into Hell for Foggy; of _course_ he likes the idea of job that lets him see Foggy more often.

“Sounds perfect,” he says, and tucks his head back down against Foggy’s shoulder.

Foggy strokes his fingers through Matt’s hair. “Well, good,” he says, his voice warm and fond, and Matt thinks _I love you, oh, I love you_ again. It’s still too soon to say it, just a little bit. But, he thinks, as Foggy’s arms tighten around him and his heart gradually slows down to a lazy, almost-napping pace, it won’t be too soon for long.

Matt can hardly wait.


End file.
